


Borderlines - Part the Third

by vshendria



Category: The Faculty (1998)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-08-11
Updated: 2011-08-10
Packaged: 2017-10-22 12:13:19
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 4
Words: 118,339
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/237889
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/vshendria/pseuds/vshendria





	1. Chapter 1

Hey. Believe it or not, I'm not perfect.

Seriously. I just kind of grope my way along, feeling my way through life and I've developed ways of doing it that some people think are pretty amazing. I know that. It's important to give yourself credit for your strengths, or you'll be racked by doubt and self-hatred. And then you'll just be useless, not to mention miserable.

It's also important to know when things are good, and to celebrate them. So I'm just going to come out and say it: Life is better.

See, I know I've been faked out before, but it's been five months, after all. Well, just past a year since Roy dumped Casey over the phone — at my demand, I might add — and then we both turned around and let him go home in pieces. A year can pass incredibly quickly, but it's still plenty of time for a person to change their life. Really change — which is to say, I would know by now if it was all going to fall apart now. I think.

I would never let Casey know that I'm having these thoughts, although we probably all have them. The odd moment comes along when I look at him and wonder if it's all about to break wide open. And then it passes and we're all still hanging in there.

Anyway, my point was that I must be just totally fucking wrong from time to time. I mean, once in a while, just on occasion — and I know that if some people, Zeke for instance, were reading my mind right now they'd snort, or laugh, or otherwise indicate that I'm making a huge understatement here. Of course, if anyone should know about being wrong, it's Zeke, but bless his big, beautiful ego, in his mind he's wrong far less often than he actually is.

I do love him, though. When it counts, he comes through. When he goes wrong he goes spectacularly wrong, but the incredible thing is that he's somehow managed to right himself every time so far, and thank god. He performed one helluva come-about last January. I told him then I thought things were going to get better. It wasn't the first time I had said it. I think it helps to keep saying positive things, you know? Eventually, you will make them true. And hey, this time I was right.

And another thing. I'm also right about that pasta with the heavy cream sauce that Oliver just pulled from the menu for some tinkering. It was just too rich, too one note. Not up to his standards at all, and I was surprised he let it pass in the first place. He hasn't been himself the last month or so, Jerry noticed it too. The entire staff of Sojourn have noticed it.

You wouldn't think that I'd have time for this sort of rumination while working, but I do. A lot of the work of a chef is rote; the same procedures night after night, and we can be attentive to quality even while thinking of other things. It's been busy here at Sojourn, but this is just Tuesday and thus not as bad as some nights. Tonight, I will even get a ten-minute break.

Jerry comes through the left of the two swinging doors. His eyes meet mine briefly as he rattles off the next round of orders. Crap, the damned stuffed chicken breast again, and of course another rack of lamb. Sometimes I wonder why people come to a restaurant like this when they only want stuff that is like stuff they've eaten before. Ranjana, my partner in all things meat, has already gone to the fridge for the lamb and chicken.

"And we've got a Meg," Jerry concludes.

This would be our in-house term for those people, male or female who want it the way they want it, for whatever reason. Truly, it doesn't bother us. Well, not me, at least. I'd really prefer someone was happy with their meal, as opposed to their ordering something they were unsure about, choking down a few bites, and declaring it "fine". That really pisses me off. Tell me if you don't like it. I can take it.

"Okay," I say. "Hit me."

"He wants the salmon but with the bulghur pilaf instead of the risotto cake, no browned butter on the vegetables and only half the sauce."

I nod, and get to it while Jerry goes back out – the right door, not the left. Going through the wrong swinging door is the stuff of Charlie Chaplin and Three's Company, and it doesn't happen here. I start on the salmon, only to be pulled up short by Eva, one of our busgirls calling out, "Sasha! The phone's for you."

I hadn't heard it ring, no surprise.

"Who is it?" I shout. I have to, over the clatter of pans and plates and fans and food sizzling. "Your roommate, I think."

I bite my lip. Casey calls me at work only rarely, and only if it's something serious. An emergency, I guess you'd say. The last such emergency had been back in March. Something had happened at school that he hadn't wanted to tell me but called in a bit of a state; he was at home by himself and he was panicking. I think he'd really just wanted my permission to take a Xanax. Yeah, at some point Dr. Chakri allowed Xanax back into his life, with the proviso that he only take them when absolutely necessary. He really doesn't seem to need them most of the time, so if he asks for one I know it's an emergency. Of course I told him go ahead and take one. According to Dr. Yves, it's possible for a "breakout" attack to happen, just out of the blue and for no apparent reason. Real panic attacks are infrequent these days but they do happen, and then he gets really down with himself for a while, like he feels he's failed in some way. Then sometimes he'll just have a generally bad, no good day and he'll be hyperventilating a lot. We just ride it out, and somehow he finds his equilibrium again.

That is, I think the panic attacks are few and far between. He doesn't tell me everything, and that's something I'm just going to have to accept.

Ranjana says, "Go ahead, I've got it."

"You sure?"

"For a few minutes? Yeah."

My heart quickens just a little as I go take the phone. "Casey?"

"Sasha."

Okay, yes… He sounds okay.

"What's up?"

"Sasha, your sister called."

"My sister," I echo. Yeah, I have a sister, a couple of brothers too. I have been in occasional contact with Anna, basically to keep her up to date on my address and phone number but haven't spoken to anyone else in my family in twelve years.

"She said she needs you to call her, that it's — um, it's urgent."

Oh, shit. Crap. This could only be bad news, and bad news in this context could only relate to one or more of my parents or siblings. Nothing else would inspire her to contact me.

"She left a number to call," Casey continues.

"I have her number at home."

"But she wanted you to call right away. She said call her at this one."

"Um...okay, hang on." I hunt for something to write on, falling back on a piece of paper towel and the dry erase marker we used to keep track of ingredients that were running low. "Okay, shoot."

"It's 233-555-1926."

Shit again. It is familiar, etched in my brain as the first phone number one ever knows as a child usually is… I could be annoyed that Anna seems to think I'd need to be told, but mainly I am terrified.

"Okay, thanks, kitten."

"Sasha... I hope everything's okay."

"Me, too. Gotta go now." I hang up. Removing the checkered kerchief that we all wear — it's really more of cap — I rub my scalp, staring at that paper towel with the number of what was once home.

Suddenly, there is a body adjacent to mine. "What's up?" Jerry says in a low tone. He doesn't touch me. Everyone knows we are a couple, but we have agreed to keep everything as professional as possible here.

"My sister called."

"Oh."

"She wants me to call her at my parents' house. Said it's urgent."

"You can use my cell," he offers.

I shake my head. "I have work."

"Sasha."

"Whatever it is, there's nothing I can do now."

"But it's later in Wisconsin, right? And by the time you get done here it'll be the middle of the night for us, never mind them."

I love my boyfriend, but sometimes I really want to throttle him. I'm sure he can see that I just want to sear my lamb in peace, not knowing whatever it is for just a while longer. The thing with Jerry is, he comes from the perfect family. He has six brothers and sisters and two parents, all of whom completely accept him despite their being boringly traditional in every other respect. His parents go to a Catholic church every Sunday, and had their children brought up in the church, baptised, confessed, the whole deal.

So naturally, when Jerry came out to them at twenty-two, they were a bit upset. They asked him for a day or two to think it over. They talked to their priests, and each other, and then told him they still loved him and accepted him because God had made him this way and how could God do that if it was wrong? They said the church is wrong about some things and needs to work on that just like it always needs to. They said priests are often confused because they don't get to have sex — while their priest is very unusual and young and he really helped them a lot.

Jerry calls this Italian pragmatism. I call it unbelievable. I realize they have always viewed him as the perfect son — he is the youngest, the baby who lived at home until he was twenty-five — and therefore if he is gay it must be okay. It's just that not too many parental types are capable of this sort of logic.

"Okay," I concede. "Just give me a few minutes."

I go to help Ranjana get the latest batch of orders rolling, then retrieve the phone that Jerry has left in the charge of the busboy. I step out of the simmering air of the kitchen into the area behind the restaurant. The relative cool is delightful on my sweaty face, and I do wish that my only task was to enjoy it.

Maybe, if I am lucky, no one will answer. Like Jerry said, it is late.

No such luck. After just one ring, I recognize the voice of my older brother, Peter. "Hello?" he says, almost whispering.

This is not good. The whole family is there.

"Hi, Pete. It's Sasha."

And now it's really, really quiet on the other end of the line. After what must be a solid minute, he finally responds, "Sasha."

"Yeah … look, Anna phoned my place, left a message to call."

"She did, huh."

"What's going on?"

He pauses, then: "What's going on is Dad is dead." He just spits it out. No, he just says it and I would think he feels nothing except that his voice is so hoarse. Maybe he's done all his crying.

"How?" I ask, feeling stupid. I'm asking stupid questions here, really stupid.

"Cancer."

"When?"

"A few hours ago."

"Oh."

"Maybe you better talk to Anna."

Before I can say anything else, I am handed off.

"Sasha... It's Anna. I'm glad you called. You, um… your friend was a bit spacey on the phone, I wasn't sure you'd get the message."

"Casey's not spacey," I say.

"I just meant...I think I woke him up."

"Anna … Pete said Dad has cancer."

"Yeah."

"No one told me."

She doesn't answer right away. "I thought about calling you before but … well, you know."

I guess I do know at that. We've all kept away from each other, pretty much by mutual agreement. Last October I'd written her a brief letter, giving her my contact information. She'd called weeks later and we'd spoken for a few minutes before we both gave up on the conversation and told each other to "take care."

"But this must have been going on when we spoke..."

"You know Dad. Even if he knew something was wrong, he wouldn't go to the doctor. By the time he did, it was way too late. That was just over a month ago. They didn't think it was worth trying to treat him, it was in his liver..."

Her voice just gives out. I hear that she is crying when she speaks again. She says, "Will you come for the funeral?"

I am, as they say, flummoxed. Bamboozled. Discombobulated. I have not been to that place in twelve years. I was kicked out and hadn't spoken to any of them, with the exception of the occasional sentence between me and Anna, since then. I have had no reason to think they would desire my presence.

"Why should I?" I say.

"It's your father, Sasha."

"Not since I was sixteen."

She doesn't try to deny it. "I know, but Sasha … I think Mom would like you to be here."

"Has she said that?"

"No, but… I know she does. She's always wanted to make peace with you."

"I'm still a homo, Anna. If anyone is hoping that might have changed..."

"I know, I just thought you might just want a chance to see her, to talk … she's not all that healthy either, Alex — Sasha, I mean."

I try just breathing and thinking for a bit. That doesn't really work out as my mind is distressingly blank. I stall for time with, "When is the funeral?"

"Probably the day after tomorrow… at the earliest."

"I'll … get back to you. I have to see about time off from work."

"Oh...thank you," she gets out, her voice thick. "Th — " she gulps. "I'm tired."

"Get some sleep," I say, unable to be as hard as I'd like. I suspect she has hatched this reconciliation as some sort of grief-fevered version of healing for herself but that doesn't change the fact that she was always the big sister, invulnerable in a way. To hear her cry hurts me, unexpectedly.

"Okay. Bye, Alex."

"I'll call and let you know what I decide."

"Okay."

And, click, and what has been a perfectly ordinary night is blown all to shit. I have the feeling that if I'd thought of something more clever to say, this wouldn't have happened. My father would still be alive.

On my way back in I nearly collide with Jerry, who it seems had been on his way to find out the news. He hauls up short. We do an awkward thing, trying to determine if we're going out or coming in, so we stand there half in and half out, like idiots. "Well?" he asks.

I shake my head. "I need to get back to it."

"But… Sasha…"

"Later."

He pauses then places his hand flat on my chest, pushing me back outside. "What's going on?"

"Jerry, I don't want to do this now."

"Just give me a hint."

I can see his genuine anxiety that he is going to be left behind in something important, and it's not out of left field either. He knows me too well. Once when we were fighting, he complained that I'm totally repressed, which to some people might seem ridiculous. But Jerry, he understands how I was raised by a couple of seriously repressed people who never showed private emotions in public. It's not fair to him, especially when I am constantly lavishing my touchy-feelies on the world at large, including him. He knows damned well that it's not the same as being emotionally open.

"Well," I say, "It's my father."

"Yes."

"He's… passed away."

"Oh, baby," he breathes. He immediately gloms onto me, he holds me, he strokes my hair, and I feel curiously empty. I have more feelings right now about the rack of lamb that is waiting for my attention.

"My sister wants me to come out there to Wisconsin."

"Of course. We can get some time off from Oliver."

I blink, trying to follow a number of assumptions in that statement. "I'm not sure I'm going," I say.

"What? But you have to go."

"You know how it is with my family."

"But this is your father, Sasha."

I shrug. He frowns. I try again. "If I go, it will be because Anna really seems to want it. She's the only one who's kept in touch at all.

"Un-huh." Jerry is obviously taking time to regroup. He rocks back and forth on his heels, looking up at the darkened sky for a second. "Well," he concludes. "I think you should go…for you."

"I know."

"And I'm coming too."

I shake my head. "You don't have to."

He is stunned. "I don't have to?"

"I don't mean … of course you want to be there for me but it's just going to be a few days … if I go…. And they'll freak out if I show up with my boyfriend."

"Well, with all due respect… screw them."

"I don't want any battles," I plead. "I can't take that. If I go I just want to show up, do my filial duty and leave."

Jerry appears to be speechless, not that it is unexpected. "I'd like to get back to work," I say. "I'll have a word with Oliver later."

This time Jerry doesn't prevent me from getting by him.

You would think that it would be hard to focus on cooking food for people, under the circumstances. It's not. I cling to the normal, to the practiced, comforting familiarity of work. The things that I know and love. I do realize what I am doing, and I tell myself that I must remember to be more tolerant the next time Casey plays avoidance games with me. He hasn't entirely stopped that, and why should he? Avoidance has its own merits, and he's a master of it. I am merely an apprentice.

Much later, after the doors have been closed, and Oliver is sitting at the bar with the day's receipts and a glass of wine, I join him there. He has a standing invitation to the cook and wait staff, but it is understood that it's not to be a party every night. More often than not, people use the opportunity to bring up work-related issues. "Sasha," he says, nodding welcome.

I sit down next to him, but before I can open my mouth, Jerry appears. He sits on my other side, thumping down with a degree of resolve that warns me what's coming. "Hey, Oliver," he hails.

"Jerry." Our employer pushes his wine bottle towards us. "Would you boys like a glass?"

Jerry helps himself to just a splash, spinning it in the glass and watching its legs.

"Oliver," I begin.

"Thanks for catching that problem with the pasta," Oliver says, unsolicited. "You were right."

"No problem."

"I guess I've been a little distracted."

Jerry stills. This has been the subject of much speculation amongst the entire staff, not that he would go telling tales. He just wants to know.

"I suppose I should explain."

"You don't have to," I say.

"Um… It's just a family thing. It's stupid but you know what family can do to you." Oliver toys with the stem of his glass. "You could be an accomplished, sophisticated, mature adult, and then you spend ten minutes with your family and all that goes right down the drain…"

"Yeah," I say. "In fact, Oliver… I have a bit of a family problem myself."

"Oh?"

"I… I'm afraid I need to ask for a few days off. Now I know I missed a lot of time around Christmas, but you see — " My voice fails, and I am appalled. This is not supposed to happen now. I am here to make a calm, logical pitch, not break down in front of my boss. There was no warning either, it just came out of nowhere. Jerry puts a hand on my arm and squeezes gently. "My father died," I get out.

Oliver's manner changes on the spot. "Oh... Of course you can have time off. Take as long as you like… and I'm sorry."

"Yeah," I reply. "It's okay, I hadn't seen him in twelve years."

"I … see."

"I think four days will do it." Now I have tamed and contained that unexpected, ungovernable emotion; I could be talking about the weather. "The funeral, it's the day after tomorrow. I'll be back the next day."

"Oliver," Jerry says, "I need four days as well, please."

Oliver's eyebrows go up. He must also know about our relationship, but it has never been acknowledged.

"No," I mutter furiously, towards my right. "We talked about this."

"I decided I have to come with you anyway."

I twist on my bar stool, facing him, trying to block Oliver from any sort of participation in this. "Jerry, I explained..."

"Yeah, you explained. Maybe I don't buy it."

"I'm asking you – no, I'm begging you!"

His eyes drop and I wonder if this is the beginning of the end — for the third time in four months. The last big argument was mere weeks ago, and it started because he suggested I should sleep in the nude rather than wearing my usual pajamas. This devolved into a discussion of my various shortcomings in the relationship department — such as the way that I always try to keep him uninvolved in the important events in my life. "Okay," he says quietly, sliding off his stool and striding back into the kitchen.

"Um," Oliver says. "Are you sure four days is enough? Because you can take more."

"No, that'll be fine. It's awesome." I am sure that four days from now I'll want nothing more than to immerse myself in the sweet harmonies of cooking. "Thank you, Oliver."

"You're welcome. If there's anything you need…"

"Thank you."

"Good night, Sasha."

I return to the kitchen, collect my wallet and keys and step out into the back, half-wondering if Jerry will be there. Since Zeke moved out of the apartment in January I no longer have access to the Mustang for getting back and forth to work, so the practice has been for me to travel with Jerry, in his car. It has been a very congenial practice indeed. Now and then, I just go home with Jerry although I don't like to leave Casey entirely alone for so long. I know he can handle it but...well, you know how I am.

I guess I'm not good at relationships. Really. I've come to realize this about myself. I've had anonymous sex with a dozen or so men, I have hundreds of acquaintances and plenty of so-called friends. I'm so very proud of my friendship with Casey which seems to be an isolated instance... but when it comes to your garden variety romantic relationship, I'm generally a failure. I'm not entirely sure why. This thing with Jerry is the longest such relationship I've ever had, and it's still such an effort, in some ways. At least once a month it seems to be on the rocks and then some how we stumble on, probably because we're just too stubborn to let go, that we do love each other however incompatible we actually are.

He is there, leaning up against his car. He barely waits until I'm within earshot to say, "I can't believe you don't want me with you."

I can't think of a response, because he is correct. I don't want him with me when I show up in Butler Lake and I'm not entirely sure why. I just know it is a fact.

"You don't want me to meet your family," he accuses.

This use of that loaded word triggers an outburst of honesty. "No, I don't, Jerry, and you know why? Because they aren't really my family, they're just these people I used to know really well and I don't feel like getting in their face. They would just stare and judge and wonder what we were up to and there is no way to change their minds so I'd rather just avoid that. I accepted a while ago that they are never going to change."

"So why are you going then?"

"To say good-bye to my father."

"No, it can't be just that. Funerals are for the living, Sasha. You go to be with your family and try to comfort each other."

"And to say good-bye," I insist. "Maybe to the whole lot of them."

"Sasha," he says, sadly shaking his head.

"You think I'm faking, that I really want a magical reconciliation, but I don't need them, Jerry. I really don't. I've been on my own for a lot of years."

"You don't need me either, I suppose."

It is a familiar refrain, and we're right in each other's space now, inches away. My body swings and leans toward him, but we don't quite touch.

"I do need you," I tell him. "I need to know you're here, that they can't touch you or what we have, and when I get back I'll need to mourn in my own way, and...god, I would love to go to your parents' house for Sunday dinner and see a real family."

He pulls me in to his body at last, hugging me tightly to him. "You're a part of that family, too, you know," he whispers back. "They love you."

I smile against his neck, an awkward thing because I have a few inches on him. I pull back and get the kiss that I've been needing.

Okay, maybe I'm not such a disaster at this after all.

We part, although he is keeping his arms loosely around my waist. "But I still have a problem," he says.

"What?"

"I don't like the idea of you doing this all by yourself. It feels like I'd be sending Daniel into the lion's den."

"Daniel did okay, didn't he?"

"Yeah. Okay… bad example. You know what I mean."

"I can defend myself against these lions," I declare. "I'm a little rusty at it, but old instincts die hard."

"Still. You shouldn't have to do it alone." Jerry's eyes wander a bit as he thinks, and I know what he is going to say almost before he says it: "What about Casey?"

"Jerry...no."

"What do you mean,'no'? His class is done. He has the time."

"He doesn't have the money."

"I'll pay for the tickets."

"I can't ask him to do this."

"But he can totally handle it, Sasha. He's in great shape."

"Maybe not as much as you think."

"Oh, come on! I know you want to protect him forever but he's a tough customer!"

"I don't want to subject him to them."

"Sasha. If there's anyone who can handle them, it's him."

Jerry has a point there. One thing about Casey that has always awed and bewildered me is that he has absolutely no insecurity about his gayness. With all his many issues and anxieties, he has somehow managed to set aside the issue of his sexual orientation in such a way that it is completely unthreatened. When I first met him I suspected it was a case of "me thinks he doth protest too much" but over time I had to grant that it is for real. It's like at the moment that he discovered his sexuality he was already so despised and under siege that he figured he had nothing left to lose by embracing it. Others would have gone a different way, desperately trying to prove their "normalcy", but not him. It was one of the first things I admired about him. As for me, I knew I was different since almost my first conscious moment, but I hid it until I was sixteen.

"He would love it if you gave him something he could do for you," Jerry argues. "It'll be good for him."

Oh, my boyfriend is good. I can't help smiling. "I guess there's no harm in asking," I concede. It would be kinda nice to have an ally of sorts when I face the lions.

There is no possibility of staying over at Jerry's tonight, even if I could use a nice, relaxing orgasm right now. I need to talk with Casey, and I'm going to have to wake him up.

Or not. Arriving at home, I know better than to look for him in his bed, but I do expect to find him asleep on the couch as on most nights when I get home from work. He denies that there is anything wrong with his bed or that he is waiting for me, but he does seem to sleep there just fine when I'm around. I don't make a fuss about it. I know how it is when you're alone in a place and even though you know you're surrounded by millions, you get to feeling like you're the only person left alive in the world.

This time, he hasn't even been dozing. He has the TV on low, and clicks it off by the time I'm in the living room. He looks prepared for me, steady even, with solemn eyes staring up at me. I really don't know if I'm about to ask him too much or just a lot. It's been so much about routine, these last few months, and he's gotten pretty damn good at that. But what of this, travelling to Wisconsin for a funeral, facing hostile relatives —

Whoa, there, Sasha. You're getting ahead of yourself. He hasn't said he would. Maybe it would be a bad idea to uproot him now —

Oh, stop it. You're doing it again. He's not helpless, not that he ever was. But he's changed.

Please, god, let him say yes.

"Sasha?" Casey is forward, on the edge of his seat like he thinks maybe he should stand. Preemptively, I sit, while Jerry goes around the coffee table to sit on Casey's other side. "What happened?"

"Well." I clear my throat. "My father died."

Three times I've said it now. It's amazing how easy it is.

Casey's eyes get huge and he looks twitchy. People, I have noticed, are always anxious about what to say or do at these moments. Helping him, I stretch out my hand; Casey grabs it and squeezes it, looking easier already. "I'm sorry," he breathes.

"Thank you."

I just hold his hand for a second, and again, I think about how I really don't want to do this alone. "I need to ask you something, kitten."

He doesn't respond verbally, just gives me his waiting, expectant face. He's developed an entire, silent vocabulary and I'm afraid that people who don't know it — which is to say, the entire world apart from Casey's five or six close friends — find it rather odd and off-putting.

"I have to go to Wisconsin for my father's funeral. I …have to leave tomorrow morning."

"Do you want me to come with you?" he says quickly, then fades a little, looking sideways at Jerry. "But you're going, right?"

Jerry shakes his head. "No, I'm not, Case. Sasha is asking you — I'm asking you if you'll go with him. I'll pay for your plane ticket and everything, so don't worry about that."

"I … I'll need to ask Tara. But I don't see why she'd say no."

"So you'll come with me?"

Casey nods. If he's nervous about it, I can't tell. I lean forward and get him into an awkward hug — awkward because he's on the couch and I'm in my chair. "Thank you," I murmur.

When Casey sits back, Jerry reaches out and casually squeezes his shoulder. This may look distant, but it isn't. Aside from myself, and probably Stokely, no one hugs Casey these days. Not even Zeke, and for Casey to allow that squeeze with out a flinch is something of a triumph.

There was a period through January, and most of February too, when he allowed no one to touch him. I mean no one, not even me, and that nearly killed me. I can barely converse with the mailman without touching, you know? And this was Casey, the guy who used to cling to people like a second skin. But we all understood. Even Zeke understood, as much as it hurt. We understood because Casey was taking a course on campus, working downstairs a couple of hours a day, going to see Yves every morning… plus, he had started swimming, for the exercise and in lieu of other kinds of relaxation which I still don't get but it seems to work for him. He just started doing everything with a vengeance, and I couldn't have been more proud, or more worried. He did all this, went about his day, negotiated those crowds on campus while living in dread of the lightest touch and while I lived in dread of getting a call, that someone would touch him and he would freak and hurt someone. But it never happened, and I stopped trying to ask him about the details of every day — how it went in the lecture, or downstairs in the store room, or with Tara, or with Zeke, whom he sees every day. And at some point he stopped sleeping twelve hours a day and the dark circles lightened, and he even went back to hugging me. It's going to be a while before he can handle casual touching from the world at large, though.

I don't know how it all happened. I know I'm not meant to know everything. I know that Dr. Yves is a miracle-worker. I know that Casey has a growing stack of journals and these papers he calls "mood logs." I know that it's not easy and it's not over and I know that in the eyes of the rest of the world, Casey is never going to be normal… but fuck them. He's difficult and secretive, he sometimes goes completely cryptic on me, he still uses all the hot water and leaves his towels on the floor and he has the taste buds of a ten-year-old — but he's an inspiration. And he's my best friend.

Best friend. Every time I think those words, they make me feel like I'm glowing. How silly is that? But you gotta understand, I had no best friend all through school. I was labelled a fag early on and spent my time with the other "fag" in the school, a fat kid who sprouted muscles and a girl friend after he hit puberty. When I got kicked out of my home at sixteen, I went to Minneapolis; I lived with a distant aunt. I obtained a job as a line cook and blew all my money partying. I knew hundreds of people, literally, but had no friends. It was more or less the same in Cincinnati, although I have to give myself credit for maturing enough to have an ambition. I met Roy and then Casey… and the rest, as they say…

I don't know how I became this person. I have to say, I'm very glad I did. With the shit I've had in my life, it really could've gone another way. But here again, I must give credit where credit is due. My father, for all his rabid homophobia and his drinking, had a marvellous work ethic which he drilled into me and my siblings. I'm really grateful to him for that, and I'm also grateful for the quiet example of my mother. Maybe she's co-dependent and passive aggressive but it was by watching her that I learned to take care of people. And how not to take care of them, too.

"Um," Casey mumbles, breaking off my wallow in my own thoughts. I let him go, giving him my most grateful smile. "So, where in Wisconsin?" he asks.

"A little place called Butler Lake. We'll have to fly to Milwaukee then take the bus… or maybe rent a car. You have time, kitten?"

Casey shrugs. "Lots."

"That's good. I mean we won't have to worry. I have four days starting tomorrow, though, so it'll be a quick trip."

"I'm sure Oliver would — " Jerry starts, and trails away as I shake my head at him. "Okay, let's look into tickets on the computer."

Shortly, we select a flight leaving around eight in the morning, and before long I am guilty all over again of taking advantage of Jerry — a sin of which I am perfectly aware, thank you. And now my credit card has been rejected; I guess I didn't bother to get my payment in on time — and it always pisses me off how I'm supposed to do it on their schedule. It's not like I don't pay them regularly. Anyway, we have to use Jerry's card for both tickets. Of course, my boyfriend never misses a payment.

I am also feeling bad about the fact that, given this early flight, we're barely going to have time for sleep. I don't much care as I'm sure that sleep isn't in the cards for me anyway, but Casey shouldn't be missing an entire night like this. Rest is essential for him to keep healthy and to minimize his anxiety. I suppose he also needs to talk to a few people, tell them where he's going and why, and unfortunately, he's not going to get a chance to do that before leaving for the airport. He tells me it's nothing to be concerned about but I see him chewing his lip when he thinks I'm not looking, and I know he's thinking about Zeke.

Zeke is not going to like this.

I once knew this lesbian couple, Jane and Sam, who decided to break up because they felt their relationship wasn't working out. As far as I know they are still broken up. They just happen to eat at least one meal a day together, talk on the phone every day, spend holidays together and even have sex. They are joined at the hip but they are not a couple — according to them.

And so it is with Casey and Zeke, minus the sex of course. Whatever becomes of their relationship, I don't think they'll ever really separate from each other. And I see Zeke struggling every day with that possessive side of himself. Oh, he talks the talk. He acts like Casey is to do and think whatever Casey wants, but I can see that he still feels exactly the same as he ever did. He wants to spirit Casey away to a private little castle where no one else can ever touch him, or even look at him.

My poor, brilliant boy. Zeke is so in love and he doesn't know how to surrender one iota to anyone. I honestly worry that his head is going to explode one day soon. Way back in January he mouthed some noises about trying therapy but as far as I know it hasn't happened. I mean, this is Zeke we're talking about here. Why would he pay someone who is quite probably less intelligent than himself when he can just apply his own brain and figure out his own problems? It sounds arrogant and self- deluded except that it seems to work for him more often than not.

Maybe I still spend far too much time thinking about Casey and Zeke. Or maybe, just maybe, I'm trying not to think of certain things right now, and so I shrug on a preoccupation that is deeply worn — and yet still with meaning for me.

The thing is, it doesn't seem to mean anything that my father is dead. I keep turning those words over and over in my mind, investigating my feelings. If this were anyone but myself I would suspect denial but since it is me...see, I don't do denial. So I really must not care that much that he is dead. After all, I haven't seen him in twelve years and had no expectation of it. I was at peace with it. I have never hated him, that's not my style.

But I'm not entirely sure what my style is, when it comes to the funeral of one of my parents. You don't get a practice run for this one.

 

Jerry gives us a ride to the airport while it is still dark out; there is just a thin sliver of light on the horizon. It is very quiet in the car. Casey is half-asleep and doesn't say much of anything. Maybe Jerry thinks I have a lot on my mind but the truth is I just don't have much to say. I am dreading some sort of emotional scene in the check-in area.

When the actual moment arrives, we just stand there. I am very conscious of Casey standing by, watching us.

"Well," Jerry says, at length. "Be sure to call me when you arrive."

"Yeah."

Jerry looks to Casey, hesitating, and Casey surprises us all by suddenly dropping his backpack and throwing his arms around Jerry. Jerry makes a small sound like "oof" and then just hugs him back, smiling slightly. "Thanks, buddy," he says. "Thanks for going with him."

"No problem."

Then Casey lets go and, with a mysterious, knowing glance at me, picks up his backpack and his suitcase and moves into the line-up. I have the impression that I am being handled by him.

I lean in to give Jerry a quick kiss, not quite a peck but not a fully engaged liplock either. "I'll call."

"Every day."

"Sure — but I'm going to be back in two days, Jerry."

"I know. Call me anyway."

Nodding, and trying to move this scene along, I pick up my one bag — well, he is illegally parked, after all. He just nods back and turns away.

It takes about twenty minutes to get through check-in and security. I offer breakfast, coffee, but Casey just shakes his head, and I really don't feel like anything myself. Soon Casey and I are waiting in the boarding area, and now it is time for Casey to call Zeke. It is still quite early but Casey waited as long as was feasible, knowing that he has to do it before he gets on the plane. As it is, Zeke is not going to be happy.

"Hey..." No need for Casey to identify himself of course. They talk and text each other frequently throughout a given day. In fact, I'm not sure these cell phones get used for anything else. "Zeke...don't get mad...well...um, I'm at the airport with Sasha."

Up until this point I have not been able to hear Zeke's voice. Now he immediately begins doing most of the talking, and while I don't know what he's saying, I can tell that he is upset.

"I'm going to Sasha's hometown for a few days....in Wisconsin."

This much I make out very clearly: ...fucking Wisconsin...! An isolated little spot on the side of my head pulses with an almost-sharp pain, just momentarily; I rub it.

Casey catches my eye. "I'll be back on Saturday," he says into the phone.

Zeke, I can tell, is in full rant. Casey lets him go for a bit, then talks over him.

"His father died, Zeke. We're going to the funeral."

Suddenly, Zeke is quieter.

"I don't know...maybe three days...yes...yes...it's okay...yes...no...yes, I've got them...yes — um, Zeke? Could you ask Stokely to talk to Tara for me? Explain it to her? Thanks...I hope she doesn't fire me...I know, it's just a worry...I've never been fired — oh, yeah?" Casey giggles suddenly, low in his throat, then glances guiltily at me, like maybe giggling is the wrong thing to do now. "Yeah, he's right here." Then he is offering the phone with: "Zeke would like to talk to you."

Of course he would. I accept the phone without a word. "Hi, Zeke."

"Hi." He sounds like a person who has just woke up, a bit gruff, a bit dopey and a bit annoyed still but trying not to sound like it. "Sasha...Casey told me. I'm...sorry."

"Thanks, sweetheart."

"Are you going to be okay?"

Trust Zeke to skip the platitudes. Appreciating his candour, I reply, "Yes, I think so. Thanks."

"I didn't know you were in touch with your family."

"Um. Sort of in touch. Just my sister, and she's the one who asked me to come. I have no idea what kind of welcome I'm going to get from the rest of them."

"Hmm."

I can hear his brain working, wanting to demand why I chose to subject Casey to all this stress instead of my own boyfriend, why I had to take Casey away for three whole days. But he isn't allowed to say that because he knows that Casey is an adult who makes his own choices and handles whatever he chooses to handle — or so Zeke will be telling himself as his blood pressure shoots up and he bites down on whatever he would say if he could.

"I hope they're polite," Zeke says at last, and I hear what he's really meaning. Polite to Casey. "Don't let them give you any bullshit." Don't you let them give Casey any bullshit.

"I hear you loud and clear," I say.

"May I speak to Casey again?"

"Of course."

I pass the phone back, and eavesdrop unrepentently until they call us to board the plane. Casey and Zeke talk about nothing in particular — what Zeke will do with his day now that his exams are done and he's racked up his latest batch of "A"s, what Stokely is up to and why Tara would be wrong to get upset about Casey being away from his job for a few days. As it is, he only works a couple of hours a day. It's about all he wants to work. God, I remember the first day he went downstairs to Wellth to start that job. It was two hours on a Monday morning. He went down there shaking and was back in less than a half an hour. Disgusted at himself, he sniffled on my shoulder for a few minutes while I tried to convince him that it was okay, that maybe he was taking on too much, and then he just dragged himself back down. I heard from Stokely that he spent the entire remaining hour and a half in the store-room. He still prefers it in there, but his job rather requires him to go stock the shelves for part of the time. It's a good thing that Tara is understanding.

They are calling us for boarding. Casey says good-bye to Zeke. I'm not sure, but there might be a bit of a tremor in his voice. Or maybe I'm imagining it. He looks calm enough.

Calm enough that he finds it easy to nod off shortly after we are in the sky. I sit back — I am exhausted myself but unable to sleep — and watch him for a bit. Of late, he has allowed himself to look less like the all-American boy and more like the fey oddity that he is.

It's funny how subtle things can make such a particular difference. Like allowing his hair to grow until it is a soft mess around his face, wearing the earrings and the pendant I bought him. He goes shopping with Stokely to the Good Will and the vintage shops, and at the moment, he is wearing an ensemble that to me says "little messy Lord Fauntleroy" — buttoned down shirt and diamond-patterned sweater vest, a scarf around his neck too but it all falls apart at the waist, where the shirt sticks out and the ensemble gives way to black, ratty jeans and scuffed black army boots. He wears black quite a lot, actually. The digital camera that Zeke gave to him is dangling off his wrist — the whole of it so apparently contrived that on anyone but him it would make me laugh and snark. But this is Casey and he can get away with it because he wears it all — his clothes, his hair, his very skin — as though he has no inkling that anyone has ever thought of this stuff before, as though merely dressing himself were new to him.

I suppose he's all about experimenting, these days, and it's just thrilling as far as I'm concerned. When we took him out for his birthday back in March, he stunned us all by wearing eye makeup — just a smear of black eyeliner and a pale, almost nude-shade of slipstick that worked perfectly with the black clothes he was wearing. He looked like a male, beatnik version of Brigitte Bardot, and I thought Zeke was going to have a stroke; he looked caught between outrage and arousal, uncertain which to feel first.

I indulge for a few moments in fantasizing my family's reaction to Casey if he were to really go all out to make an impression. But I don't really want to be in anyone's face. That was what I told Jerry, right? In and out, do my duty, pay my respects, and then get home.

"What?"

I force myself to focus, to notice that Casey is blinking hard, catching me looking at him.

"Whassup?" he mumbles.

"I was just thinking how cute you look."

He actually blushes, staring out the window of the plane now.

"And," I add, "I can't believe not a single person has asked you on a date."

"Actually..." He turns back to me, he moves his head around, stretching. "Someone did."

"Who? When?"

"In the last week of class...this guy who looked at me sometimes."

"I'll bet he did look at you."

"Oh, Sasha," Casey sighs.

"What, kitten?"

"I fucked it all up as usual."

"Fucked up...how? What?"

"At school."

"Why? But you told me you did well." He took one course this past term, something about popular culture, I think. I remember seeing him reading his course packet, and he seemed entirely engrossed and happy. He never missed a class.

"I got an A, yeah, but..." Casey's voice lowers. "I never talked to anyone. I mean, not once. I sat away from the rest of them....sometimes...sometimes I couldn't even concentrate on what the professor was saying, I was so freaked out. It was awful."

"But you still went, Casey."

"I know."

"Don't beat yourself up."

He sighs, "I know."

I imagine Yves has told him the same thing. I return to the original topic: "So what about this guy who asked you out?"

"It was funny...he was kind of nervous."

Gee, I wonder why. It only adds to his charm that Casey seems to have no inkling of how he affects people. Of course, I have not allowed myself to consider the possibility that Casey might have encouraged any requests for dates. I am just not ready for it.

"He just came up and introduced himself. His name was Andrew."

"Oh, yeah?"

"I told him my name...and then he asked me if I wanted to have a coffee with him — and I freaked, Sasha. I'd been trying not to panic but then I thought I was going to hyperventilate...and then I just ran out of the room."

"Oh...poor kitten." Secretly, I am pleased, as terrible as it sounds. I am worse than a father with a virgin daughter where Casey is concerned. I know I will have to get over it but these past four months have been so peaceful.

"Poor Andrew," Casey returns. "I don't know what I said but I'm afraid it wasn't very nice."

"Yes, poor Andrew." I manufacture a wistful smile. "But why were you afraid? I mean...was it because you didn't have any interest or..." God, this is hard to ask. "Or because you did?"

Casey is quiet for a time.

"He was kind of hot," he muses, at length.

I do not like the sound of this, not at all. I turn towards him, signalling that I really want to get to business on this topic. "Have you talked to Dr. Yves about dating?"

"Um...not really." His eyes shift, back towards the window.

"Not really?"

"Sasha." Suddenly, Casey is gazing at me, all blue-eyed sincerity. "Why don't we talk about — about you ins-stead?"

It's rare for him to stammer these days. I pat his hand gently. "I'd really rather not."

He stares blindly, like I might have just cut him off at the knees.

"I like to talk about you," I say, by way of explanation. "You know that."

"But..."

"I know what you're trying to do and it's okay."

He frowns, mutters, "I'm not good at this."

"You do just fine."

"No, I don't." He meets my eyes again. "I want to be there for you...I want to... you know, help. How do I do that?"

"You're asking me?"

"You're the expert." His fingers are tapping nervously on the arms of his seat. "What would you do right now?"

"What would I do?"

"If you had a friend who you knew was upset but they refused to talk about it." He gives me a long, considering look, the one that Zeke has dubbed "the probe."

I raise my eyebrows. "You should remember...I did it to you often enough."

"And you would just keep pushing."

"Yup."

"I didn't like it."

"Well," I say, with a shrug, well aware that in my own way, I am being contrary. "I don't know what to tell you. I think you should just go with your instincts, kitten. There's no wrong thing you can say."

Casey sighs, then yawns, trying to cover his mouth.

"It doesn't help that you didn't get any sleep," I add. "Why don't you try and catch a few more zees? There'll be plenty of time later for you to comfort me."

He blinks slowly and oh-so-prettily at me, and I think if I were this Andrew I wouldn't have given up so easily. As Casey curls up in his seat and settles into a deeper sleep, I also consider the fact that I am a difficult bastard. I will have to work harder to give my friend a way to feel he is helping me. It will be good for him.

We land in Milwaukee near one, local time, having already lost two hours of our day. I have decided that I do not want to be at the mercy of others for getting around and rent a car, using Jerry's credit card. He is such a hero, that boyfriend of mine, refusing to let me leave without it.

It is a bit of a walk to pick up the car. Casey trails just behind, hauling his backpack and his one small piece of luggage. I also have just a small suitcase — this is only a three day trip, after all. It is cool but very bright today, the sky stark and devoid of clouds. I hope Casey thought to bring a jacket. Spring doesn't come early around here; even if it is almost June, it can still be fairly cool.

When we get on the road, I am somewhat surprised that I still remember how to get around. The Johansson family used to come to the big city quite often — for shopping, for entertainment, or just for a holiday. I find my way through the expressways and onto that secondary highway as though it's just been a few months.

And I'm beginning to feel scared.

This is really happening. Up until now it has seemed like some sort of mental experiment but it is now dawning on me that it is real, especially when I see the urban terrain give way to the colours of my childhood — thickly forested greens and browns, the frequent blue of water, the endless stream of transport trucks, the signs warning of moose and deer and the odd patch of snow still hunkered under a tree somewhere. I'm really going back to Butler Lake, the town where I grew up. I'm going to see the woman who gave birth to me. She will probably look different — and she will look at me as though she hates me, I'm sure. Lots of people will be looking at me that way.

God. Why did I ever agree to this?

Well, I know why. It was Anna, crying on the phone, pleading. We had been close once, and that was it. Hearing my older sister so near to falling apart...she had always seemed so strong to me before.

"Sasha," Casey says, somewhat timidly.

"Yeah, kitten."

"I can drive if you want to take a break..."

"That's okay."

"But — I need to practice, you know. For the test."

His driving test is in August, and I know from personal experience that he has become quite a proficient driver. Zeke has seen to it. They go out for practice at least once a week, and I think Zeke even lets him take the wheel now and then on the way to the movies or wherever they happen to be going. I'm amazed that Zeke is capable of giving up even that tiny degree of control. He must have scared himself pretty damned good back in January. I know he scared me.

I am not a control freak. I'm not; I just don't feel like relinquishing this task right now. I can't. If I don't have something to do, I'll lose it.

"On the way back, okay? I promise."

"Okay," he sighs. He is quiet for a bit, taking in his surroundings. "Are we going to share a room?"

"I doubt it. Um...you know that my family...well, they're not so keen about me being gay."

"I know."

"I expect everyone to be polite, mind you."

Now I don't know why I said that. I wasn't even sure who knew I was coming, especially since, I now realize, I have completely forgotten to call Anna back and tell her I have decided to come and it's too late now, might as well just show up — well, that's my line and I'm sticking to it. So it might just be one hell of a nasty surprise to the folks when I walk in. They might not even recognize me.

"Will you be okay, sleeping by yourself?" I ask.

"Of course," he says, a bit too quickly.

"You don't feel nervous, do you?"

He shakes his head. I wonder if that's the truth, or if he has just become entirely adept at hiding it. "It's beautiful here," he says, continuing to look out his window. In profile, his eyes have an interesting quality that I don't have the words for.

"Yes," I agree. I can see it now, the way a newcomer might see it. It's one of those things you don't appreciate when you're a kid, but I can see it now.

"It's nice to be somewhere with sunshine," Casey adds.

"True."

"Sasha? What's it like having brothers and sisters?"

I imagine that this question is a ploy to distract me. Once Casey stops being focused on his own crises, he can be fairly observant.

"Oh, I don't know," I sigh. "I guess it's like...living with these people who should be your enemy except they're not. They know every damn thing about you and know how to use it against you...and once in a while you suddenly find yourself liking them. But then it passes."

"I always wished I had siblings."

"What kind of siblings?"

"A big brother, mostly."

That wasn't surprising, and it certainly doesn't require comment from me. I say, "I always wished I was an only child, actually."

"Why?"

"So my parents would have to focus all their attention on me, of course. And to teachers I wouldn't be the third Johansson, after Peter and Anna. I would be a stand-alone Johansson."

"But you already are...stand alone."

"Of course...I'm just saying what I wished when I was younger. What's it really like, then?"

"What?"

"Being an only child."

"Oh, it's...weird, I suppose."

"You suppose."

"I figured other people must think I was spoiled."

I snort. "You are so not spoiled."

"But there is this way that — that everyone gives you all their attention, you know? My parents and others. It's kind of suffocating."

"Hmm." I've seen it in action, what he's talking about. I can just imagine the celebrations on the day he was born, and as it quickly became apparent that he was the most beautiful child who ever lived — and he was, Allison showed me the evidence last Christmas — the attention and love bestowed upon him must have been intense, and the removal of it, later on, devastating. And yet in a way, it was never removed entirely. Casey may have felt abandoned but he never was, not in the same way that Zeke has been. And then there's me. Shit, I keep coming back to me.

In a hurry to get away from my thoughts, I say, "So what about dating?"

Casey is looking at me oddly. "Um...we don't need to talk about that now."

"Why not? We've got nothing to do but talk."

"But you have other things on your mind...right?"

"I had other things on my mind a second ago when we were talking about our family situations."

"This is different."

"How so?"

He glances out the passenger-side window, sighs, answers, "You're not going to like it."

Well, I had to keep pressing and pushing, like always, and now I know that there is a thing, and I need to hear what it is. "You know you have to tell me now."

"Yeah."

"You know I'm never, ever going to let it go until you tell me."

"Yeah."

"So...shoot."

He sighs again, more deeply. "I don't want to upset you, Sasha."

"What could be so upsetting? We were talking about dating. I'm not keen on it, I'll admit, but — "

"I don't really want to date."

I blink a few times. "Hey. I'm all for that."

"I just want to have sex."

Okay. Colour me stunned. It takes me a few minutes of flustered breathing to get some sound together. I try for a laugh. "Oh..."

"I can't deal with any relationships, so why should I date anyone?" Casey is staring out the front windshield now, cool as a cucumber it seems. "Besides, Zeke would go nuts."

"That's true..." As if Zeke wouldn't go nuts at the prospect of Casey just having sex.

"I just want to go to a club and hook up with some people." Casey turns to me, wearing his most innocent face. "Can you help me with that, Sasha?"

"With what?"

"Yves said I should ask you if you'd go out with me one night...help me get comfortable."

I think I'm about to sputter.

"I'm a little nervous," Casey adds, by way of explanation, I imagine.

"Did you discuss all this with Yves?" I choke.

"Yes."

"And what does she say...about the whole idea?"

"She thinks it's good for me to explore."

"Really."

"Kay, what she actually said was, ‘I don't advise people how to live their lives, Casey, but if you want to know my opinion, I don't think you should necessarily limit yourself to just thinking about getting back together with Zeke.' And I thought about it and I'm really not ready for that."

"But — but — what does she think about the sex part?"

"What do you mean?"

I compel myself not to be wishy-washy, not for another second. "I mean, you are talking about going out and having anonymous sex, correct? I'm just worried you'd be hurting yourself again...because..."

"Because of what happened before?"

"Well...yeah."

Casey's voice is tight now. "You think I can't have sex without someone taking advantage of me. You think I'm just acting out and letting myself be used."

"In a word — yes."

"Maybe I want to be used."

"Oh, Casey..."

"Sasha." His voice is getting tight, even angry. "I haven't had sex in more than five months. I wouldn't be doing anything so dangerous, I would always make sure to use condoms — Yves definitely told me what was what on that point — and I was hoping you could give me some advice because I know you've done this before, when you were younger. If you don't want to help me I'll just figure it out myself."

Just as he finishes, a sign flashes by — Butler Lake, 18 miles — and for a moment I indulge in the fantasy that he made all this up to keep me occupied. But I know he hasn't. He tried not to tell me, in fact, and I made him. Aren't I pleased with myself now?

"So what you're telling me is..." I muse aloud. "It's going to happen with or without my help."

Casey nods. In profile, I see his throat working, and I know that while resolute, he is also a little bit terrified. This is one of those facets of the new Casey, the Casey-that-is-becoming-Casey. He is reckless at times, determined. He will pull stunts, launching himself into the void despite his fears, and woe to anyone who tries to get in the way. Not that he's pulled any stunts like the ones in December and January, or at least that's how it seems to me now. Maybe it was just that I was so very worried for him, every time he disappeared off my radar, it was a crisis. Nowadays, it's quite common for me to lose track of him. I'll know that he's at school or at work or doing any of the things that keep him busy most days.

Still, I really wasn't sure what to make of it that time when I woke up in the morning and he was gone. He came in just moments after I began to panic; he was damp through, and he had a camera full of pictures. Seems he'd gotten it into his head to go out in the middle of the night and take pictures of the fog.

Or there was that day in early January when he decided, like it had just come to him, that he needed to go right then to register as a part-time student. I begged him to wait for Zeke to go with him. He argued with me for a while and when he figured out I wasn't going to listen to him or him to me, he just walked out. He came back hours later, a bit shaky and wild-eyed...but he did it.

Then there was the time we went to the Seattle Art Museum to check out their Modern art collection. It had been planned ahead, and it was the four of us — Jerry, Zeke, Casey and me. Casey overheard some guy diss a photograph he liked; he turned to him and started debating on the spot. There were a few moments when that guy looked scared, like he was concerned that he was going to be attacked. I can't even remember the details of the argument. Another time when we were at the Experience Music Project, Casey just kind of took off, surprising us all into a round of Hide and Seek Casey. When we did find him, he apologized and said he had suddenly felt the need to be by himself. That was all we could get out of him.

And don't even get me started on that whole Thomas-is-my-friend business. I know I shouldn't blame Thomas because he is just a nice, bipolar man, and really very smart, but he did almost fuck up Casey's life. And of course, after the episode with the police Casey still didn't hold anything against him but happily trotted to the hospital to visit him. Zeke and I were being very, very good at that point, I'll say. Weren't we supportive, respecting Casey's choice of friend like that? We accompanied him to the hospital and sat in the waiting area with gritted teeth while Casey went to talk to the man. Zeke, the hero, even went back a second time, and he went with Casey right into Thomas' room. They met Thomas' parents, this elderly couple who flew from the Bahamas or Barbados — I can never remember which one and I know it's terrible of me but I can't bring myself to care. Now Thomas has gone home with his parents because he is broke and can't look after himself, and it is really rather sad for him. Casey does seem to have a knack for picking friends. Maybe his next new friend will be a homeless, schizophrenic transsexual.

But I digress.

The point is, Casey has a short fuse these days, really. He wants to do things his way, like a two-year-old just learning to walk. He's often impatient and pissy, he pushes himself hard and gets very upset when things don't go as well as he'd like. I keep telling him he doesn't need to take these huge gulps out of life, that it will come to him if he's patient, but he doesn't want to hear it. I truly wonder if this is the person he's going to be. I can take it, really, and I know that Zeke can. I just want Casey to be happy with it.

There is no more time for the conversation that I begged to have and now wished I had never been apart of, as we are in Butler Lake. At first glance, it's all as I remember. Well, some of the stores seem to have closed, and it all looks smaller and more run down than I recall. There seems to be some growth in tourism — a few new sporting and outdoor recreation outlet have sprung up. It does not look like one of those tidy, perfectly kept American small towns. It just looks small, and getting smaller.

"Sasha," Casey says in a small voice.

"Hmm."

"Are you mad at me?"

"What? Oh, no, kitten. Um...we'll have to put off the rest of this talk for another day, okay?" My eye is on the artifact known as Henderson's General Store. It seems to still be open for business, and I am consumed with the need to stop, to go in and see if it is as I remember. "I'm not mad, I'm just...distracted here." I pull up in front of Henderson's, turn off the engine and face Casey. "We'll talk more about this later."

"Okay." Casey is wearing a wan smile. "I know...not everything is about me."

"I asked for it. And you did a good job of keeping me occupied, that's for sure."

His smile widens, responding to my grin. "What are we doing?" he asks.

"I just want to...see this store. I used to come here all the time when I was a kid."

He nods, reaches almost automatically for his camera. While I go up to the entrance of the store, he is backing away to the other side of the street so he can get a shot of the old facade. I haven't been thinking of it this way, but it now occurs to me that this could be a kind of pilgrimage, and I'm relieved that Casey is here to record it.

Shit damn, it's exactly the same in here, right down to the configuration of the shelves, the buckets of novelty candy on the counter, the ancient Coca-cola cooler and the bells that announce my entry. And there's Mr. Henderson behind the counter. The same but older, with a thin white fringe of hair and liver spots. I wonder if he is grooming another Mr. Henderson to take his place.

"Good morning," he says, nodding.

"Good morning."

I take my time about going to the cooler, giving him a chance to look. There are two other people in the store, and they look too. They look hard, but no one says a word. They don't recognize me, although I recognize them...Sandy Kirkila and Joe Pella, two guys who worked for the railroad and spent all their time fishing...probably still doing that, or maybe they just do the fishing now. Of course, I was only sixteen when I left. I probably look quite different.

The door jingles a second time, and we all turn to look. It is Casey, of course. He just nods, doing his shy face. His difference, here in this space, in this town in fact, is like a shout, more so than mine. I look like a big city person to be sure but I don't wear my difference the way that Casey does. I know I'll give myself away as soon as I speak but he doesn't even have to do that much.

"Hey, kitten," I say. "You want something to drink?"

I can feel three sets of old-white-hetero-male eyes on me.

"No, thanks," Casey says. His eyes flicker and he backs out of the store with a slight, nervous smile at Mr. Henderson. He has the right idea, not turning his back on them.

I pull a coke — in a can, that has changed if nothing else — from the ice in the cooler and go up to pay for it. As I fish out my wallet, I can feel Mr. Henderson searching my face, perhaps wondering. "Just passing through?" he asks.

"Well, actually..."

This is ridiculous. This is a tiny town, and chances are I will see this man at the funeral.

"....actually, I'm here for Walter Johansson...for his funeral."

"Alex?" whispers Mr. Henderson.

I look up.

"I thought it was you! It's good to see you, son!" He is shaking my hand. "My gosh...geez, I can't believe you're here!"

"I can hardly believe it myself," I comment.

"Yeah, it's such a terrible thing. He was only sixty." Mr. Henderson shakes his head, clucking. "I'm sorry for your loss, son."

I am surprised, and I'm not sure why I should be since people normally say those sorts of things when someone dies. "Thank you."

But of course, now Sandy and Joe want to get in on this scene. They're at the counter, shaking my hand and expressing their condolences and they start to ask me where I live and what I do but Mr. Henderson discourages them, telling them I probably have things to do. I wish he wasn't right.

At last, I exit the store, clutching my cola. That wasn't so bad, I think. It was even, almost...nice, except for the part where they all glared at me and Casey like we were a couple of insects. Only once they realized that they knew me were they required to be friendly.

I hop in the rental car, where Casey is waiting. "Take some pictures?"

"Yeah...did they recognize you?"

"Eventually."

"How did they...how did they act?"

"Friendly." Humming a little, I start up the car again. "Okay. Well, there's no putting this off. Gotta go home."

The word doesn't actually fit, but I can't think of any others to use.

Growing up, the house I lived in was your average sort of house. It was not a picture perfect icon; it was smaller than that, a tight fit for six. I had to share a room with Jason until I was ten, when part of the basement was converted into a room for me. The furnishings did not change once in my conscious memory, but my mother took a lot of pride in keeping things clean, in looking after them. We were forbidden to eat or drink anything in the living room, and always expected to contribute to the household chores. She was equal opportunity about it, too. We all, from time to time, had to do dishes, or laundry. Or cooking — I took an interest in that by the time I was ten. By the time I was fourteen, I was frequently given the task of making supper, to my mother's specifications, of course. I remember once suggesting we have egg noodles instead of macaroni and I received such a scathing look that I never suggested anything again.

I'm wandering again.

As I was saying, the living room has always been off-limits except for special occasions, and wouldn't you know that my dad dying would turn out to be one of them? Casey and I pull up to the house as the sun is just falling, and it is full of people. Well, relatively speaking. There are five or six vehicles parked outside. I can see light in the living room and kitchen — the house is blazing with light.

I spare a look at Casey who is studying my childhood home rather intently.

"Are you going to be okay?" I blurt, feeling the sweat thicken on my skin.

Casey just gazes at me for a second; then he calmly reaches for my hand. He squeezes it and says, "I'm fine, Sasha."

"Good, because this is more people than I was expecting."

"I'm fine." And he smiles, dazzling me momentarily into forgetting my hysteria. It strikes me that I have been instrumental in helping my friend get to this point, which brings me to another point, which is that I am one righteous dude. I rock. I will go in there and remember that.

It's time to get out of this car. Casey signals it by letting go of my hand and getting out himself. He waits for me, and we walk up together, going around to the side door, the one that enters onto the kitchen. I almost knock, and then, changing my mind, I simply enter.

The howl of indignation that I have been expecting does not come to pass. I take those three steps up into my mother's kitchen, every bit of it a retracing of worn, deep grooves in my brain, and now I look to see who these people are.

My sister, Anna, and my brother Peter, look as though they have been in a huddle. Also present are my Aunt Lucy and Uncle Ernie, Mrs. Garner from next door and a child whom I don't know. It seems that there is a bustle of hospitality. Tea and coffee sets are out, and there are platters of cold cuts, sweets, the remains of a lasagna. It looks like Mrs. Garner has been washing dishes.

"Alex?" my sister half questions, half-exclaims, and a bit of hubbub from the living room that I have barely been noticing until this moment — it just dies, leaving a resounding silence throughout the entire known world. Anna crosses the kitchen and hugs me without hesitation. She is plumper than I remember. I allow myself to hug her back, needing it.

"Sasha," I correct. "Please?"

"Oh, right." Suddenly a distance has opened. She steps back, wiping her eyes. "Sorry."

I see that Peter is standing exactly where he was, staring at me. His expression is disbelief, not unlike the expression on the two people now standing in the arched opening between the kitchen and the hall. My younger brother Jason and my Uncle Ted.

"What do you want?" Uncle Ted demands. He is far from sober, no surprise. I can expect the same of Ernie and Lucy, to varying degrees.

"Uncle Ted!" Jason whispers. He steps forward. "Wow — wow, Alex." He gives me a half-hug, half-handshake, squeezing my arm. "I can't believe it."

I lock eyes with Peter who still hasn't moved or spoken.

"Get out!" Uncle Ted spits. "You don't belong here."

"I was asked," I respond.

"By who?" Ernie demands, speaking for the first time. "Who asked?"

"I called him," Anna says. She puts a hand on my arm. "I asked him to come."

Ernie hisses, "For God's sake, why? And you didn't bother to tell anyone..."

"Peter...and Anna..."

"You didn't call," Peter says to me. "You didn't tell us if you were coming..."

"He's Dad's son, too," Anna argues.

"He is not," Ted pronounces. "He is nobody's son."

Peter rounds on him. "Uncle Ted, I'm handling this."

"Okay, you know what?" I break in. "I didn't come here to be argued about, I came here to pay my respects to my father but I'll leave if this is going to be the way it goes."

Anna just blurts it out: "You brought someone."

And Aunt Lucy chimes in, "He brought his boyfriend. He brought his boyfriend, Ernie."

"Did you have to bring him with you?" Anna whispers, gesturing to Casey.

Now, up until this moment I had intended to explain and protest that Casey is only my friend but it has come about that I am seriously pissed off. I have come here in the spirit of good will, after all, and now I find out that Anna and Peter didn't even mention that I had been invited, so now I have the pleasure of watching the family boil get lanced right in front of me. And I am so very angry.

The next thing I hear is my voice, slightly shrill, claiming, "Yes, I had to bring him. Would you expect your husband not to come with you to your father's funeral?" And I nearly yank Casey forward, capturing him in my arm. I feel his muscles straining, resisting the urge to deck me and run. At least he is beyond speech, which is good for me.

"Husband," someone snarls.

"Okay, live-in boyfriend, technically, but that's beside the point. The point is, we're here for the funeral and if you don't want to put us up, we'll go find a hotel room."

"We don't have your old room anymore," says a voice.

My mother's voice.

All argument ceases, and we stare at her. I stare, because she looks absolutely tiny, haggard and frail. Exhausted too, but I'm not sure how much of it is grief and how much is the passage of twelve years.

"Oh," is all I can say. I sense Casey trembling slightly, for any number of reasons probably, not the least of which has to be the number of close stares he is receiving at this moment.

"You could sleep on the couch," my mother says, neatly ending the present melodrama. She does not acknowledge Casey other than to add, "There's two couches...both pretty comfortable."

"Oh...kay."

It feels like I'm whispering. Maybe I am, in fact. My mother is moving closer and I'm glad I have Casey as a crutch. This is a good thing. Not collapsing in a faint in front of hostile relatives is a good thing.

"Are you hungry?" Anna asks suddenly. "Um...Casey? Can I get you anything?"

"Doris, just wait a minute!" exclaims Uncle Ernie. "Just wait a minute, I'm not going to have my brother's memory defiled by him — "

"This is my house," my mother says, and that is all. The conversation is over...for now.

She stares at Ernie until he begins to mutter and shift his weight, at which point Aunt Lucy says maybe it's time to go, and within five minutes they plus Uncle Ted, Mrs. Garner, the cousin I have never met and a few guests who have been hiding in the living room, have cleared out. During this process, Casey takes it upon himself to say, "I would love some tea," and he even chooses a chair and sits at the table. Anna occupies herself with playing host to him, getting him a clean plate and utensils, putting on the kettle. Jason is eyeing Casey the whole time, I notice, while Peter seems more interested in staring at me accusingly. I slide into a chair myself, feeling my shoulders slump. I watch Casey take a bite of lasagna. His hand is trembling and he is entirely focused on his food but other than that he is doing amazingly well. Much better than me, in fact.

"Can I have a plate too?" I request.

Anna gets it for me. I am not hungry, but I ladle on the food anyway.

"Would you like coffee?" Anna inquires.

"Tea is fine."

Jason snorts. I see that he has taken one of the two remaining chairs. "Well," he observes. "This is incredibly awkward."

Now here's a guy who was eight years old when I left, and I have absolutely no idea who he is. "Good point," I agree. "So Jason...what are you up to these days?"

He shrugs. "School."

"Oh, yeah?"

He nods, still attempting to study Casey without seeming like that is what he is doing.

"What are you taking?"

"Engineering."

I see Casey finally glance up, so I say, "Casey was in physics for two years."

Jason looks — and this is putting this charitably — skeptical. "Really."

Casey nods. "I'm changing my major, though."

"To what?"

"Film."

Jason nods, like this makes much better sense. Casey suddenly gets up — well, perhaps not too suddenly, but the movement alarms me.

"Excuse me...where's the bathroom?"

"Just down the hall," Jason replies.

Casey vanishes, with the sound of soft steps and a door closing, and God help me, I begin to spin a terrible fantasy where he panics and I have to go talk him out. In this fantasy, my family sees me doing what I do best and realize how I have grown, what an impressive person I am. We forget discomfort for a while, all of us, because the anxiety is concentrated and performed by Casey.

I am terrible, aren't I?

"He's your boyfriend?" Peter whispers to me.

"Yes," I insist, wanting even as I do to come clean. I told Jerry I didn't want to be in anyone's face and then it was almost the first thing I did. They pressed and I pressed back — exactly what I shouldn't have done. Perfect. I consider telling them the truth, but the problem is, then they will know that I lied. Any chances of credibility will be shot, and they probably won't believe me anyway.

I hear the bathroom door open. Unclenching a muscle or two, I sigh, "Tell me about Dad."

Peter's mouth thins and lengthens. "What do you want to know?"

"Everything."

Peter, as always playing the role of head sibling and parental advocate, responds, "He was diagnosed in early March and they said six months but he just deteriorated very quickly. I think he knew before they told him."

"Was he at home?"

"At first," Anna interjects from over by the sink. "The last two weeks...in hospice."

I can't not look at my mother. She is sitting on the stool that she has always kept in the kitchen, the one that she has always sat on when peeling potatoes or just watching us eat, talk, squabble — like she's doing now, basically. I want her to speak, to give me some indication of what she's feeling, but she's never been one to do that, neither in her kitchen nor in a group. I used to work hard at being her son. I would seek opportunities to talk to her, do work for her because she was always so busy taking care of us and, I figured, a very lonely person in some fundamental way.

"Was he in pain?" I ask, my throat aching. I realize that this has been a major worry of mine even though I haven't allowed myself to think it until this moment. I see Jason tearing up, and the lack of response from either Anna or Peter tells me what I don't want to hear.

"Some," Peter finally answers. "But for the last several days they had him on really powerful drugs...so he didn't feel anything. He was unconscious."

"Was — was he scared?"

Jason is full-out crying now, making soft noises. Anna glides over and squeezes his shoulder. I suppose they all break down from time to time and now it is his turn. I can't, not yet.

"Not by the end," Peter says, very soft.

"That's...that's something, I guess." I again look at Mom, who is not speaking or moving. I have no idea how she is feeling right now. I get out of the chair, putting myself closer to her, looking for some indication that she would like to me to touch her, to comfort her, to do something. In my other life, my real life, I wouldn't need that sign of welcome. I would just blast on by any reserve and do what was necessary. "Mom?"

I whisper.

She looks up at me. I really don't know what I want to say; I have no idea what is going to emerge from my mouth. Everything is unsettled and wrong and I can't even trust myself.

"I wish I could have been here," is what I do say, entirely unexpectedly.

It is all too silent in the kitchen, as we wait for a word from her.

"I wish you could have been here too," she says, and I am just about to sob with relief when she adds, "but you couldn't."

"Mom — "

"You know how your father felt about your — choices."

I am too gutted to protest.

It is Anna who speaks up. "But he was dying, Mom. I think...Alex has a right to be here, just like the rest of us."

"Yes, he has a right to be here," my mother replies wearily. "It doesn't matter to Walt now."

Sincerely, at this point I want to run out of the house, out of this fucking town and never come back but I am here and I am not going to miss my father's funeral now. Jerry got that right — if nothing else, I need to be there for my own sake. I'm not letting them drive me away.

"What about you?" I demand. "What about you, does it matter to you?"

"Alex." My mother shakes her head.

"My name is Sasha. It's been Sasha for a long time."

"It isn't the name we gave you."

"It's a version of it. I'm still your son, whether you give a damn or not!"

I hear the sound of flesh slapping the table and Peter nearly shouts. "Don't talk to her like that!"

I say, without turning, "I'd just like to know if she wants me here or not. That's all."

"And you have to put this on her right now— "

"Yes, dammit, because if she doesn't I'll go find somewhere else to sleep. I'm not going to skip the funeral, I am going to be there one way or another. I just want to know where I stand in this house, and yes, I want to know now."

"Now that sounds like the old Alex I remember," Peter claims. "I want, I want, I want — "

"It's Sasha, dammit!"

"No cursing in my house," my mother croaks, silencing us both. "You know that."

I close my eyes for a second. Yes, that always was the rule, I can respect that. "I'm sorry."

The kettle whistles. Jason starts visibly.

When I can look again, my mother is studying me, curiously almost. "I would like you to stay," she says, shifting off the stool. "And now I'm going to sleep. I'm tired."

"Yes," I whisper. "Of course. Thank — "

I break off, because she is already leaving the kitchen. From where I am standing, when I turn to follow her with my eyes I can see all the way down the hall and that's when I notice that Casey is sitting in it, halfway along with his back to the wall, his knees tucked up. Mom stops to stare down at him. "Make yourself at home," she says flatly, then resumes her trek to her bedroom, shutting the door behind her.

I hurry to Casey, whom I had completely forgotten. I squat down in front of him. "What are you doing, kitten?"

To my relief, he looks at me. "I didn't know where to go," he says in a small voice.

I fear I have made a mistake in bringing him here. It is the last thing he needs, but here's the problem: I need him. I need to have him here now, to protect and to worry about. I need to take care of him right now like I need water and air.

"Here, grab my hands." I pull him to his feet, tug him down the hall to the kitchen. "You were eating, weren't you?" I prompt, reminding him as I steer him towards the table.

"Yeah."

Anna's instincts are not unlike mine; she picks up the beat right away. "And I was making tea for you, I forgot! Here sit down." She pours the still-steaming water into the teapot that has been standing by all this time, and delivers it to the table. Cup and saucer, sugar and milk follow soon after while Casey just looks dazed.

I sit, and I try to get a read on these people, my siblings. Anna is making herself busy, probably relieved that I have a nominal thumbs-up. Peter stands apart like the uptight bastard he is, watching Casey disapprovingly. Jason is red-eyed but under control, and he too is looking at Casey. He doesn't strike me as hostile, especially.

Anna finally sits, leaving Peter to scowl unhappily at a distance. "I'm sorry," she says to me, very quietly. "This is actually the first time it's been just us...in days. Uncle Ted and Uncle Ernie and Aunt Lucy have been here the whole time — and I know they mean well but Uncle Ernie keeps going on about how old and scared he feels — "

"Fuck, yeah," Jason interjects.

"Shh!" Peter critiques, instantly.

"I'm sure she doesn't hear me. If I have to hear him say ‘I'm feeling like death is stalking me' just one more time..." Jason breaks off and scrubs his face and scalp, rubbing his eyes. "So. Anyway. What have you been doing...Sasha?"

I think I could get to like this guy a lot, my kid brother.

"He cooks," Anna says.

"He's a chef," Casey corrects. "In a famous restaurant."

"Really?"

Jason does sound like he wants to know. "Well." I squirm. "In some circles, maybe."

"How do you get to be that?"

Since he seems truly interested, I answer. "I went to chef school and I had to work a certain number of hours in a restaurant which I've pretty much been doing non- stop since..." I trail off. I'd much rather watch Casey stuff his face with lasagna. It is relaxing, comforting. It means everything is still okay.

"I remember you used to cook for us sometimes," Jason says.

"Yeah. There wasn't much room for creativity, though."

"What do you mean by that?" Peter demands.

"Pete!" Anna protests.

"I just mean," I return, "that this is Mom's kitchen, not mine."

"And I suppose her cooking wasn't fancy enough for you."

"Her cooking is great. Suppose you just spit out the real issue so we can get it dealt with before tomorrow."

He walks closer to the table so he can lower his voice. "What gives you the right to be here?"

"My father — "

"I asked him," Anna says.

"Yeah, without consulting with anyone first."

"Would that have made it easier?"

"Yes."

"Okay, then I'm sorry. But I think Mom wants him here. She was just too proud to say it."

"She hardly knows what she wants. This is about you, Anna, not Mom."

I tend to agree, but I am keeping my mouth shut. But Anna seems stumped for the moment. She stares at the table, her throat working.

"You know what?"

Casey is speaking. I stare, stunned by his presence all of a sudden; stunned to see and hear him when I have just been talking to my brother and sister. These two things don't belong together, and I can only let this unfold.

"I don't get how you can say all these things to Sasha." Casey sounds angry — furious, even. He has that slightly wild, reckless energy about him. "He was the one who was kicked out and he didn't have to come here! He wanted to — that should be enough for you!"

"Hey — " Anna begins.

"No!" Casey is trembling now. "Sasha doesn't deserve this. I don't have brothers or sisters but if I did I think I would just be glad — " He is stalling now, becoming aware of himself. He finishes as though it were in some way a failure even though it's not, "I would just be glad he's here now."

I could cry, although I'm not sure exactly why.

"He's right," Jason says. His mouth trembles as he looks at me. "I'm glad you're here...Sasha. I don't give a damn about anyone else."

I'm really getting close to a full breakdown here. "Oh, shit," I say, fighting it. It's been one hell of a long day already. I strangle on, "Thank you."

"I'm glad you're here too," Anna says, tossing a glare Peter's way. "Even if it feels weird. I wish it wasn't Dad's funeral that brought us together here but...anyway."

Peter has nothing to say, but I'm sure he'll find his words again before I leave.

It turns out that Anna and her family are staying at the Travelodge upon the Interstate, as are Peter's wife and kids. I knew that they are both married and might have wondered that the spouses and children are not around tonight if I hadn't been in such a state of distraction. In fact, when I learn these details my only thought is how these people are already at an advanced stage in this experience, while I am way, way behind. They're done the hospice, the initial bouts of tears, the subsequent bouts of tears, the endless reception of condolences. They are weary and hoping for some rest tonight. Peter has made all the funeral arrangements and already initiated legal processes on Mom's behalf. There is nothing in any of his actions that are not entirely selfless, I know that, but something about it grates on me nonetheless.

Not surprisingly, Jason is sleeping here at Mom's house tonight, using the bedroom in the basement that is still his for the summers, the one that used to be mine. Peter is sleeping in the extra bedroom upstairs. The third bedroom has been, at some point, converted into a sitting/knitting room. It has a small, second TV, and I can envision my two parents here on an ordinary night not so very long ago, each in their separate spaces, watching their separate televisions.

Shortly, Anna departs for the hotel, giving me a peck on the cheek and a hard hug first. Casey and I fetch our bags and settle in the living room while Peter disappears somewhere and Jason goes out — for "air", he says. I suspect that he is another silly boy who thinks it is cool to smoke.

Draping myself on the couch, I turn on the TV, needing that glaze that only mindless entertainment can provide. At length, I unexpectedly feel something warm and wriggly, and I realize that Casey is snuggling with me. I hug him back with all my strength.

"Are you okay?" I ask.

"Yes. Stop asking."

"I'm just — "

"How are you?" he demands.

Tears threaten to make a getaway, but I get them back in their prison. I just don't feel safe, not when Peter could suddenly appear. Or my mother. I don't feel ready to let either of them see me being vulnerable. "I'm fine, kitten."

He says nothing.

"All right, then, I'm managing. How about that?"

"I wish I could do something."

"You're doing plenty. Hey, you rose to my defense a little while ago. You didn't have to do that."

"Yeah, I did." Casey straightens up so he can catch my eye. He murmurs, "Sasha...why did you tell them I'm your boyfriend?"

"I'm very sorry about that," I mumble.

Casey regards me solemnly. "If you think I'm going to kiss you, forget it."

At this, I can laugh. "I feel the same way, kitten."

"But why did you do it?"

"I was pissed," I admit. "I wanted to say something outrageous. Now they all think I'm a child molester so I'm happy."

He gives me a mock punch in the ribs. "I'm not a child," he scowls.

"Yeah, but you sure look like one."

"I do not."

"The point is, you're too young for me."

"You're not too old for me," Casey teases. "I mean, if you weren't you." Hearing himself, he reddens, but I know exactly what he means. It would be utterly creepy between us. God, I can't even think of it without cringing.

"Do you think, er..." I stumble, "Do you think would it be okay if we didn't tell them the truth? It's bad enough I'm a fag, I don't want to be a liar too."

"What...do we have to do?"

"Nothing. Absolutely nothing."

He nods. "Okay." Bouncing up, he says, "I'm going to go sit in the car and talk to Zeke."

I have to dig the keys out of my pocket. "Here you go."

I take advantage of the lull and change into my pajamas, brush my teeth. I think I am supposed to call Jerry but I am so tired I can barely think. Peter comes up from the basement and goes without a word into the bedroom that was formerly and now once again is his — and I am relieved for both our sakes that we don't have to encounter each other. Alone time must be a precious commodity in this house right now.

Lying flat on the couch, I flip channels for a bit. Nothing grabs me, so I just leave it on a channel out of Milwaukee that was once one of the only three that we had in Butler Lake. It's a re-run of Seinfeld, and even though it is impossible, this all feels utterly familiar, utterly comforting and utterly strange. I do not quite watch, half- listening while I study the objects in the room, trying to put this all in context.

It is my intention to stay awake until Casey gets in, even if he and Zeke are at it for hours — not out of the realm of possibility with the way of the two of them can go on, you'd think they were a couple of teenage cheerleaders — but I can't do it. My eyes are too heavy, I haven't slept in forty-eight hours and the desire to escape into sleep is too strong. I leave the TV on, finding the drone soothing.

I don't sleep well, though, opening my eyes once when Casey takes the remote from me and switches off the box... and again, much later, I think, to the sound of the toilet flushing. I check that Casey is lying on the couch across from me before closing my eyes and sleeping again. I dream that I am at the hospital and I keep trying to get to my father's room but I can't find it.

 

Abruptly, I wake to the daylight slicing my mother's white sheers, to a guilty jolt of awareness that I completely neglected to call Jerry last night. I sit up quickly, noticing that Casey is no longer on the couch adjacent to mine — but I find him in the kitchen. I have to stare for a minute, as he is sitting smack in the middle of the childhood memory I never had: Here he is at the table in his pajamas, his hair mussed, eating a bowl of cereal and talking to Jason about his roommates in college. They seem to be competing to find the anecdote of the most extreme engineering student, chatting like they are old friends just about.

Off to one side, Peter is wearing his black suit and drinking coffee, while Mom is similarly dressed for the funeral and seated on her stool. She nods at me. "Good morning."

"Morning."

Somehow it feels acceptable for me to go to the cupboard and help myself to a mug. I pour the last of the coffee pot into it. I expect it to taste awful and it does — weak as coffee-scented water, the way my mother has always drunk it, and burnt as well. I control my face, having the feeling that everyone in the room is looking at me.

"What time are we due at the funeral home?" I ask.

"In one hour," replies Peter, completely neutral with me. "I'm about to go pick up Helen and the kids. Anna will be here in a bit to pick up Mom. I don't know if there'll be room..."

"We'll take our car," I assure him — as though I really wanted to be at his mercy, crammed in his vehicle with his wife and kids.

"I'll go with Sasha," Jason pipes up.

"Um...does anyone need the bathroom?"

"Go ahead," my mother says.

I am aware that the clock is ticking. Still, once shaved and and coiffed and dressed in my suit — a possibly inappropriate dark maroon, but it's all I have — I borrow Casey's cell and go outside to use it. I must trust that Casey is getting ready to go; the days are long past when I had to constantly cajole him to do things like eat and get dressed. And speak.

Jerry answers my call almost immediately, with a hopeful tinge to his voice. "Hello?"

"It's me."

"Thank God! You didn't call last night."

"I'm all right."

"I know, Casey asked Zeke to call me. Why didn't you call?"

"I was just too wiped, babe. I'm sorry."

"It's okay... How's it going?"

"Well enough, I guess..." I trail away as Peter steps out.

"Yes?" Jerry is saying.

"Just...um..." With a glance at me and my suit, Peter walks on to his vehicle. I wait until he is in, and with the door shut. "Sorry, that was my brother walking by. Now I can talk. It was a bit bumpy when we arrived. My drunken uncles made a stink and Anna wasn't exactly championing me — but finally my mum spoke up and said she wanted me to stay."

"Oh. That's good."

I keep my eye on Peter in his SUV, backing out of the driveway. It boggles; he is neatly sealed in a world that is as comfortable to him as it is foreign to me. "She hasn't said much else," I mention.

"Give her time, Sasha."

"I am...but you don't know her. She's never been the type to share." Something twists, small and deep in my gut. I stomp on it. Hard.

"Well...how are you feeling about everything otherwise?"

"I dunno. Weird."

"That's to be expected."

"Yeah. Look, um.... Jerry, I have to go. I'm due at the funeral home in less than half an hour."

"Oh. Well, can you call me this afternoon before work?"

"I'll try."

"Love you."

"Love you too."

Even as I am saying this, the door squeaks and rattles. Casey comes out, dressed all in black and lacking only the accessory of his camera. It is has been left in the car, I guess. Jason is just behind him in black slacks and a black knit shirt. Behind them, there is my mother.

"Gotta go," I say. "Bye."

"Bye," Jerry says from Seattle. "Hang in there — "

"Mom, we could give you a ride," I offer, thumbing off the phone. "There's lots of room."

She casts a disapproving eye at Casey, who has managed somehow to make his black clothing look like the fashion statement it is rather than a gesture of respect. And for the first time I notice that he's wearing a bit of eyeliner today. This must be his idea of getting dressed up...or maybe his idea of how to help me although I can't quite see the reasoning? Or, in Casey-logic, a way of taking the heat off me and putting it on him? What he doesn't realize or remember is that everyone will be judging me by him. Or maybe that was his point...anyway, a part of me wants to cheer and a part of me wants to smack him.

"No," Mom says, frowning slightly. "Anna will wonder..."

"We'll just wait for her then."

"You don't have to."

"It's okay." I am not about to contribute to Peter's list of the crimes of one Alex Johansson by leaving our mother unattended right now.

In any case, Anna pulls into the driveway just moments later. Well, technically her husband does. Their SUV — god, I think it might even be the same model as Peter's, the only thing different is the colour — is filled with strangers. I seem to recall that she has three children. I am expecting Mom to just climb in but Anna and her husband both get out and walk over to us. He is tall and grey, with a serious expression.

"Sasha," Anna says. "This is Greg, my husband."

He smiles a bit as he shakes my hand. He seems friendly enough.

"Nice to meet you." I nod towards Casey, coax him forward with a hand. "This is my friend, Casey Connor."

"Hi." Greg doesn't even twitch. Anna must have prepared him in advance. He greets Casey as though they were business colleagues.

"Hi," Casey says. When he moves, I think for a second that he is wearing mascara too...just for a second. But he's not.

"Okay," Greg says then, a bit on the bright side. "Shall we?"

In the front seat of the car, I notice Casey staring longingly at his camera which lies on the console in between us. I begin to sweat, and I think for a moment that I'm going to freak out. I have a vision of him pointing those shameless eyes of his through his camera lens, snapping pictures of my father lying in his casket while my family sobs and hates. He would do it too.

For those seconds, I am ready to explode. Then I put the key in the ignition.

Moments later, Casey is just my friend again, an ordinary and comforting presence, and I have that shameful sweat drying on my skin. I've barely been in this frickin' place for twelve hours and look what they're doing to me. Of course Casey or my family's reactions to him or to me, those really aren't my main problem, because now I realize that I have not given a moment's thought to what is going to happen to me when I see my father's body. That is my main problem.

Just drive, Sasha. Turn that wheel, gas, brake, gas, brake. Behind me I hear idle chatter from Jason and Casey as I drive to the funeral home. They talk about nothing, and they don't stop until we get to our destination. They stop just long enough to get out of the car and resume, continue as we walk up to the front entrance. I wonder if I am awake, if I am not still lying on that couch in the living room.

My heart is pounding, and I barely get through that door before I have to deal with the funeral director who doesn't know what to make of a sudden, secret fourth offspring. They probably don't cover this on the exam. I try to make it easier for him. In the course of this, I learn that the actual funeral doesn't begin for another hour. The idea is that family comes early to have some time with the deceased.

All too soon I am in the chapel itself, with Casey and Jason on either side of me. There it is up at the front, surrounded by flowers. It looks like an expensive casket and I am touched by anger from an unexpected source. He probably let his wishes be known before he died, not thinking of the further burden it would put on his widow. How is my mom going to manage, what is she going to live on? Will she have to sell the house — ? These are things I have not thought of until this instant when I see the shocking wasteful extravagance of that coffin.

I can see that there is a shape in it, one that gradually becomes familiar, until I am looking down at it, staring at it. Jason is already sniffling. He should be a guidepost for me, a constant demonstration of the appropriate times for tears. He acts normal until the sadness touches him and then he just lets go. He's got his head on straight, that kid.

My father always seemed enormous to me. He was, too, tall and broad if a bit flabby around the middle. Now he is lying there shrunken and absolutely, utterly still. I have never thought about how much of living is motion, even when one is supposedly still, just sleeping or breathing. Even at rest, the living move...while the dead are literally inanimate, like an object. And... his face doesn't look quite right. It is compressed, sunk in, bearing only a resemblance to its former self.

From nowhere I hear a loud, ungraceful sound and — oh, god, that's me. A violent emotion is taking hold and I can't stop it. I am sobbing aloud, my noises filling the chapel.

You disgust me were the last words I ever heard him speak, and truly, I am not angry anymore about that. I just have this desperate regret that I never made the effort to try to speak to him in all these years, to give him the opportunity to not die with those words on his conscience. He would probably have never taken them back, but he should have had the chance.

There is a hand on my arm, tugging me...leading me to a small comfortable alcove off to the side, no doubt put there just for occasions such as this. I can't speak, I am crying so hard, the kind of crying where embarrassment is long past a consideration. I am sitting now, and my head is being cradled, and dimly, I realize that it is Casey who is doing the cradling. He is rocking me too, and soothing my hair, and it occurs to me that my back is killing me here but then it is gone as I give myself over to this, overwhelmed.

During the middle of it I raise my head and notice that Jason and Anna are both in the room, and Anna is actually on my other side, not quite touching me. Jason is standing there red-eyed. No one has said a word all this time and I am still far too loud. "Sorry,"I choke out.

"Don't be silly," Anna says, putting her hand on me.

"Silly is s-something I'm...definitely...definitely am..." Which of course makes no sense. "I've always been the — ridic – ridiculous — " I hiccough. " — brother."

Casey's comment is, "Fuck that."

A throat is cleared. Apparently, my mother is in the room too, looking down at me; I'm not sure who made that disapproving noise, her or Anna. I pull up, struggling to get myself together. I can't...I can't...

"...can't..."

...can't let her see me like this. Not her.

"I'd like to talk to Alex."

Shit. Shit, shit, shit...does she have to do this to me now, why can't she leave? I can't keep it together in front of her. I don't want her to see me this way.

Everyone goes away as requested — except Casey, even when Mom is giving him the stare that used to wither me. He is unimpressed. He's faced down far scarier things.

"I'd like to talk to Alex," my mother repeats.

"You're not allowed to hurt him," Casey declares, drawing gasps from off- stage. He stands up and squares off with Mom, blocking her view of me and mine of her.

"Cas — " I croak.

"You don't hurt him."

"I'd like to talk to my son," my mother says, like the fact that she gave birth to me should be proof against her doing me harm.

Casey doesn't budge.

I finally get out an entire word. "Casey." A huge shudder moves through me. "It's okay."

In this instant I am completely aware that whatever connection I may have to this woman, Casey is my real family. Casey and Zeke and Jerry, they're it. It's something of a relief to me to know that I have not been spouting bullshit all this time, that the emotional truth matches with the hard facts. I feel stronger as a result. I can do this.

I raise my head and see that Casey is finally moving and my mother is taking a seat next to me. Casey lingers, on the cusp between the alcove and the chapel, waiting. My mother's stare at him still makes no impression.

"Okay, kitten."

He twitches, looks hard at me; he nods, and slips out of sight without a word.

If I think that Mom is going to start the conversation, I am mistaken. After a few seconds of waiting, I realize this, and I also realize that she is staring at me. "I didn't mean for this to happen," I say, hating my defensive tone.

"It's fine."

But still she is staring at me.

"What?" I demand.

She glances away, but just for an instant, like she can't help herself. "The last time I saw you, you were still a boy," she whispers.

"Oh." This hadn't even occurred to me. "Did I — do I — " Oh, hell. "How did I turn out?"

"Very handsome," she answers, smiling briefly. "And very tall. I don't know how I had such tall children."

If she gave me the slightest encouragement now, I would collapse, weeping in her lap, but I don't see any such signal from her. "Did you worry about me?" I hear myself say. "Did you?"

"Yes, I worried. You were only sixteen."

"But that didn't stop you from kicking me out."

She seems taken aback that I would be this blunt, blinking hard. I'm a little taken aback myself. I had no idea that I would be confronting her when I came here, even in this small way.

"Your father..." she begins, and just looks down at her lap.

Oh, I know how I am supposed to read this. I am supposed to feel bad for her even though she can't make herself say it, can't verbalize what we both know, that she was afraid to contradict or argue...that it was so far from the realm of possibility that she probably never said a fucking word against him. That it was easier for her to let me go. Or maybe, she didn't even want to not let me go.

"...you were doing..."

"What?" I say sharply.

"I said...your aunt let me know how you were...once in a while. After you moved..."

The conversation, such as it is, falters. I sniffle, wiping away a tear that rolls all the way down into the corner of my mouth. My eyes still burn but I'm getting nearer and nearer to my point of equilibrium. "What did you want to say to me, Mom?"

"I..." Again she is not looking at me. "It's...good to see you."

It's almost like a click in my head: Uh-huh. There is no surprise, nothing but a fulfilled lack of expectation if such a thing is possible.

This is why I came here wanting to do my duty and leave. I will get nothing from her and I know that. She will let me stay, make me coffee, offer cereal to Casey, make pleasantries, and see me on my way. She, like my father, is who she is — repressed and passive-aggressive and full of self-delusion. She probably tells herself there was no other way just so she doesn't have to admit to what she really thinks: her son is wrong and a sin, and her husband was right to send him away.

"Yeah," is all I have to say.

"I'm surprised that you..."

"That I what? Would come here? I almost didn't come you know, but my boyfriend has all these ideas about family being the most important thing in the world."

Her eyes flicker, and I remember that to her, "my boyfriend," is Casey. "Do his parents know about him?" she asks.

"Yes. And they still talk to him, believe it or not."

She shakes her head slightly.

I surprise myself yet again, asking, "Did Dad ever mention me? Did he ask about me?"

I was really, really not going to do this...but here I am. I should have known better — I do know better. I see her bite her lip and not answer, and in that I have my answer. I have the suspicion my father was far less upset about what I might do in the privacy of my bedroom than about the way I carry myself, the way I talk and act and emote. The fact that I've always preferred cooking to car repair, never mind that the world of professional cooking has always been just as male-dominated as that of mechanics. It doesn't matter what bothered him more, though, because the end result is that it — I— was not acceptable to him.

"Well," I say, and shrug. "Forget I asked."

"Alex..."

"What?"

"Will you sit next to me during the service?"

You know, I really want to refuse. I think she thinks I'm supposed to be grateful for this gesture while she gets to display me, tell everyone in her distant, unspoken way that it wasn't her fault — and get a jab in at Ernie and Ted and Lucy at the same time. I know this family too well. Every little petty nugget is going to be exacerbated, cherished and hovered over for years to come. I am going to say no —

"Okay," my mouth says, ignoring my brain.

Damn.

She smiles and pats my hand, and I suddenly can't wait for this day to be over so I can go home.

Which is what I am thinking, precisely, when I hear a shriek and a cry and a hubbub from the chapel, just the other side of the curtain, and an instant later I realize that the cry is in Casey's voice. I am up and out of that alcove within the next second. I see people scattered about looking dismayed — Anna, Peter, their spouses, Uncle Ted and Ernie and Aunt Lucy, and there is Casey near the head of the coffin. Ernie is right in his space — or maybe he is in Ernie's space, it is difficult to tell. They look like two cats ready to rumble, and Ernie hisses, "You little faggot!"

Maybe he is going to push Casey, maybe he isn't, but it doesn't really matter. I recognize, with dread, that Casey is standing there rigid with fists formed and ready at his sides. He is preparing to do whatever damage he can. His blue eyes blaze with equal parts terror and rage. He whispers something that I can't quite hear but I don't have to. Stay away from me...don't touch me.

I slip an arm between them and force Ernie back, away from Casey. "What's going on?"

"He — he — " pants Ernie. The man is still hammered. Or again hammered, whatever.

Behind me, Casey hisses, "He tried to — he t-touched — !" I hear him gulp on the last of the words, unable to make them take external form. Soon he will either be lashing out blindly or shutting down. Neither is a desirable option.

"Faggot!"

The funeral director is on-hand, trying to do his job. "Excuse me, friends, this isn't the place."

"That little freak was groping my — brother — touching his body!"

"You're just jealous!" Casey shoots back.

A gasp goes up, not entirely unjustified.

"Pervert," Ernie strangles.

"You know you want it," Casey mutters.

I spin around, find him stony-eyed and shivering. He is protecting himself the only way he knows now, making these most terrifying, impossible statements. Taking a risk, I grasp his arm. His eyes roll in his head, and he tugs on my grip...perhaps not as hard as he could, a sign that he is not beyond reason. "We're going outside," I whisper. "Casey? You hear? Outside."

That last word gets his attention. "Yes," he whispers back hoarsely. He lets me direct him down the center aisle of the chapel, through the lobby and down the front steps. I feel him tremble, then quake, and I don't stop until I am across the street in the tiny green park that forms the centre of the town of Butler Lake. In the middle there is a historical plaque that speaks of the town's history in the railroad and lumber industry. There are benches placed around it, for more sustained viewing.

Casey stands there and hunches a bit. I think he is still angry, still dangerous but with no outlet for it but himself now. "What happened?" I ask, not expecting too much from him at this point.

"He grabbed me."

"He says that you touched my dad's body — ?"

"I just touched his hand. I wanted to know what it felt like and — and that man, that — that — he grabbed — my arm."

"And then?"

Abruptly shamefaced, Casey faces the ground and admits, "I freaked."

"Un-huh."

"I...I pushed him."

"You couldn't have just..."

No. I am not going to blame Casey, I am not going to make this about him. He's had way too much of that already, from Roy.

He didn't instigate this. Touching my father's body is not a sin, and it was Ernie who overreacted, triggering Casey's panic. These moments when Casey loses control and misbehaves, I have to accept them and not make a big deal about them because they don't happen often and he is constantly working on making them stop. If he didn't try so hard to be the way we all want him to be, he wouldn't be so easy to forgive.

"Sorry," Casey whispers.

I shake my head. "You didn't do anything wrong."

"I'll bet you're sorry you brought me," Casey mutters, having completely lost his defiant edge. In fact, he is shaky and miserable. He is doing that thing with his lip.

"No, kitten, no, of course I'm not sorry. I don't know what I'd have done without you here."

"Really?" he asks, looking up at me hopefully.

"For sure." Tentatively, I squeeze his shoulder, wishing I could just fold him into a full-body hug. I can't, though; I know this and I know it again when he twitches, just barely allowing it. "You know, I think tonight I'm going to be in need of a drink. We'll go to a bar, just you and me. Tomorrow we'll be heading home. Sound good?"

Casey starts to nod. Jason's voice intrudes, "What's this about alcohol?" Casey jumps hard, twisting to peer at my younger brother. Jason adds, with a hopeful look, "And I'm not invited?"

"You — " Casey stammers. "I — you can come — too — I guess."

I almost kick him, and change my mind. Casey is doing an amazing job of socializing with my brother, and I should provide positive reinforcement rather than deterring him.

"Is everything okay?" Jason asks.

"I think so," I reply.

Suddenly a huge grin splits Jason's face. "You're my new hero," he tells Casey.

"Wh-what?" Casey stutters.

"You had half the old biddies in this town ready to faint."

Casey frowns and hugs himself. "Oh."

I scowl in Jason's direction. He takes the hint and amends, "Okay, listen. Don't you give a fuck about Uncle Ernie. He's an old drunk and everyone knows it. Probably a closet case, too."

Casey doesn't say anything.

"They're going to start," Jason says to me. "Mom's asking for you."

I look at Casey, who says right away, "I can't go back in there yet."

I agree with him, but now I have a problem. "Then we'll just stay here."

"You can't. You can't miss the funeral."

"Kitten, I'd rather be here."

"I know you would," he says softly, pinning me out of nowhere with a stare of pure understanding. "And that means you have to go in."

"Yeah," Jason agrees, "and Mom is saving a seat for you, you had better use it."

Still. They are correct, but it is a lovely Wisconsin day and I would so much rather be out here enjoying it than in there. Plus, Casey is in one of those moods when he might take off on some crazy adventure. I am terrified of this, in fact. There are all kinds of different, new trouble he could find here. Wood ticks. Hypothermia. Bears. Lions...and tigers, oh, my.

"Sasha," Casey says, almost pleading.

If I don't go, he'll blame himself. I don't want to do that to him. "Do you promise not to move from this spot?"

Jason snorts and shakes his head, while Casey nods. "Yes."

"You promise."

"I swear."

"Okay, because — "

"Geez!" Jason laughs. "Sasha, you're being ridiculous!"

He's a quick one, my kid brother.

"You hafta go," Casey urges.

"You're okay with this?"

He shrugs. "Sure."

I close my eyes, taking a moment for myself. "Well...okay." More or less — mainly less — re-charged, I head inside.

The chapel is packed now. People are standing along the walls in the back and along the sides. I see Mr. Henderson, I see the two men from the store, my second-grade teacher, the neighbours, the guys from the shop, and on and on. I walk confidently down the middle aisle to the front, aware of the hushed whispers surrounding me, and I sit next to my mother. Anna is on her other side — which means that Peter has been displaced. He sits next to me and glowers straight out, not looking at me.

Reverend Walberg comes out from behind a curtain somewhere and begins.

You see one funeral, you've seen them all. There are the roster of applicable sections from the bible, and the bullshit. I don't mean to sound cynical, but the point of all this is to make us feel better, right? Not that my father was entirely devoid of positive qualities, but between Peter and Uncle Ernie, he gets painted as some sort of American folk hero. Add to that some loud lamenting by first my Aunt Lucy and then Mrs. Garner, and Ernie nearly breaking down on the pulpit...bullshit, and I mean that in the most humane way.

Oh, and according to Ernie, my father had only three children. He didn't just avoid mentioning my name; he actually used the word three and described how proud my father was of each of them.

I'd be lying if I said it doesn't hurt — but it doesn't hurt all that much either. It wasn't unexpected, and really, I'll be glad to get back to my real life. I'm not sorry I came, but I understand now that I am here to say goodbye.

When the service is over, we are notified that interment will follow, and after that a reception in the basement of St. Urho's Lutheran. Jason joins Peter and my two uncles in bearing the coffin down the aisle. It takes a while to get out the door, what with everyone jamming up the place, some trying to offer condolences. A lot of people approach me, acting like I have been here all along, or was just off on vacation for a while. I shake hands and make nice, knowing that my appearance, Casey's outburst and my mother's decision to have me sit next to her will be fodder for gossip for months, if not years.

Once I am outside, I am sweating heavily inside my suit jacket. I am also very relieved to see Casey standing on the steps. He stands out like some sleek, gorgeous black bird amidst a bunch of fat pigeons. I go to him immediately and I know that now he is ready for a hug. I get all of him in my arms, comforted by the fact of him. "Is it over?" he murmurs.

"Well, there's the interment, and then a reception."

"Kay."

"Do you want to walk to the cemetery?"

"That depends on how far it is," he jokes, as though he is still that kid who flees from exercise when in fact he's probably way more fit than I am these days.

"Fifteen minutes."

"Okay."

We slip away; I make a point of not catching my mother's eye, or anyone else's. We simply set out along the sidewalk, in no hurry as the convoy with the hearse hasn't even started moving yet.

"It's not a bad little town," Casey comments, taking in the main square, which just happens to be almost the entirety of Butler Lake. The rest is just houses, a school, a few churches and various industrial enterprises and falling down, abandoned buildings.

"It's awful," I say. "I was so bored when I was a teenager."

"I don't mind it."

"Just try living here."

We walk a little further.

"Did I screw up?" Casey asks then, his voice brave even through the slight tremor.

I shake my head. "Nah. I mean, I don't ever want you to be distressed, of course, but I'm with Jason on this one. I also don't mind seeing people get a little shaken up."

"Your mom's gonna hate me."

"I don't know that. Hell, I don't really know what she thinks about me, but you know? I don't really care."

"What about your brothers and Anna?"

I shrug. "Oh, Peter definitely hates me."

"I don't think so."

"Hmm."

"And...er, Jason would like to get to know you better."

This is a slight surprise. Not so much that Jason wants to renew our relationship because I could see that for myself, but that my little brother seems to have developed a friendship with Casey in such a short time. I suppose it has something to do with the fact that they are much closer in age than any of the other people currently in my mother's house. It makes sense that they would bond, kinda.

"When did he tell you that?"

"Last night...when I went out to talk to Zeke. He was having a smoke. He keeps asking me questions about you. I think he missed you after you left."

"Why doesn't he talk to me?"

"Maybe he finds me easier to talk to," Casey says with a cheeky, sidewise glance.

"Right, because I'm so intimidating."

"Maybe you are, to him."

"He just saw me blubbering over our Dad's coffin, Casey."

Casey seems to hold his breath. Then he says, "Speaking of which...are you okay?"

"Yes. I just needed to get that out of me. I'm just fine."

"Sasha."

"Yeah..."

"You ever hear of that river in Egypt?"

"Oh, come on... not everyone has parent issues, Casey."

"Actually, I'm pretty sure that they do."

"Okay, then, but I mean...not serious issues."

"Whatever you say...Zeke."

I clasp my hands to my heart. "Ah! You wound me, kitten."

"I'm just saying."

"Geesh. A few months of therapy and suddenly he's a psychiatric expert."

We have reached the gates of the cemetery. Casey looks around and up at the sky, and I have to agree that it is a very interesting one. When you live in cities, you get used to not seeing very much of it; in a way, coming back to a place like this, my overwhelming impression is one of flatness, even if the land is in reality lumpy and rocky. The sky is so wide and close, and today it is full of sunshine, just occasionally having to pierce high, grandiose clouds. They cast odd, misshapen shadows as they pass.

"I wish I had my camera," Casey says.

I cough. "Probably best to have left it in the car."

"Yeah, I know."

"For the sky?"

"For the tombstones, mostly. And I'd like to take pictures of the people. Do you think they'd mind?"

"You're kidding, I hope?"

He is almost smiling at me. "It's not like I have anything to lose."

I shake my head. "I still have to be able to talk to them, kitten."

"Okay," he says quickly. "I'm sorry, Sasha. I don't want to make it harder — "

"Hey. Relax, you. I know you weren't serious."

We have beaten the hearse and its convoy, but I have a pretty good idea of where to find the family plot. Casey and I head over there to wait, and easily find the open hole in the earth. Nearby, are the graves of my father's parents and an older uncle who died as a child. We stay back a little, watching as the mourners file in, shuffling along behind the coffin and its pallbearers.

This part is relatively short. The minister reads aloud the traditional passage. I may not have mentioned this, but I have been to a few funerals in Cincinnati, when friends of mine — not close friends, but friends all the same — died of AIDS. I've heard this "dust-to-dust" speech more than enough.

Casey reaches for my hand and just holds it.

I'm not sure when I started to cry, but I know I am crying when they lower Dad in. Oh, well...might as well do this right, get it all out of my system. God, I hate the idea of being trapped in the ground like that. I mean, I know that technically, it won't matter to me but it'll be easier to confront death in the first place if I know that's not going to happen to me. On the other hand, I suppose being incinerated in an oven is a little scary for some...what the hell am I thinking about, anyway?

In the church basement, there is a wide variety of donated, homebaked goods and a gigantic urn of appallingly bad coffee, as well as a cooler full of McDonald's scary orange drink for the kids. Casey helps himself to the latter, and some no doubt tooth-achingly sweet bars with chocolate and coconut. We sit with the family in folding chairs, at folding tables. Anna's and Peter's kids raise a ruckus up on the stage until two of them, both girls of maybe eight or so, consult for a minute and then come running over to me.

"Hi," one says. I think she must be Anna's daughter. "Mom says you're my uncle."

"That's right," I say. "And you're my niece. What's your name?"

"Britney."

"Cool."

She looks unerringly at Casey. "Are you my uncle, too?"

"Brit!" Anna whispers.

Britney just gazes roundly at her mother and continues as though nothing at all was said — and I must say, I like her style — "Are you gay?"

"Brit-ney!"

"Yeah," Casey replies.

"You and Uncle Sasha live in the same house?"

"It's an apartment, but yeah."

"Why do you have make-up on?"

I hold my breath while Casey mulls responses. He comes out with, "Because it's fun."

"My mommy won't let me wear any."

"Oh, I guess...yeah, I guess you have to be older."

The other girl, who must be Peter's, blurts, "My daddy says boys don't wear make-up."

Peter has gone very red. I would have thought he'd have learned by now to watch what he says in front of children. He's been a parent for how many years, he should know how offhand comments can come back to bite him in the ass. Hell, even I know it. I intervene, "Your daddy's wrong. Some boys do."

"On TV they do," the girl agrees solemnly.

"Yes."

"You have to wear make-up if you go on TV, my teacher says."

Peter stands. "I'll be outside," he says, evidently angry. He strides out, while his wife, to whom I have not even been introduced, looks agitated, like she thinks she should follow. Anna pats her hand and she stays put.

Not terribly concerned, Britney says to Casey, "Your eyes are super blue."

Casey takes it in stride. "Thank you."

I decide it's time for me and Peter to have a talk. I get up, ignoring Anna's strained expression, and go to find him. He isn't hard to find. I spot him pacing in the parking lot and scramble up, feeling very much like a younger, albeit taller, brother.

"I don't want to talk to you," he says, seeing me.

"Too bad."

"Too bad? What're you gonna do, then? Hold me down and shout?"

"Peter."

"Tell me you are not with him."

"Huh?"

"Casey. You can't actually be with him."

"I'm just as gay as he is, Peter."

"He's a child, Alex! Geez...I never thought so badly of you that you would — you'd use someone like — that — " He is shaking his head, and shaking too. "God almighty, is he even legal?"

"This is what's bothering you?"

"Among other things."

I have to amend my assumptions. Is it possible that all this time Peter's main objection to me is that I appear to be a pedophile, for which I can scarcely blame him? I would think the same thing if I saw Casey with someone my age. "Casey is twenty," I feel compelled to say in my own defense.

Peter rolls his eyes. "Sure."

"No, he really is. I know how he looks, but he is."

"But you're still a lot older...and I have the feeling he's not entirely...normal."

Okay. Officially, I can't stand it. "First of all, no one is normal, Pete, and second...what if I told you that Casey and I are just friends? Roommates."

"I'd say why did you lie to us then...on top of everything else?"

I fold my arms. "What everything else?"

He is able to hold back only for a few seconds. "I can't believe that in twelve years you haven't changed!"

"I've changed tons — "

"Everything's still all about you."

My mouth gapes, I feel it hanging there, wide open.

"You waltz in at the last second and demand Mom give you a place here, and — never mind that I've been here all along dealing with the doctors and the lawyers, answering the goddamned phone. I'm the one who should have been sitting next to her, I should have — !"

He stops abruptly, like he is realizing just how much of his personal feelings he's revealing. I just wait, devoid of a response. I am too surprised, and well on my way to angry.

"It's not fair," he resumes, more calmly. "I've been the dutiful son, you took off and never even tried to get in touch."

"They said I was dead to them."

"So? You didn't have to believe it. You could have tried but you just vanished — oh, and then I hear from Anna that you're talking to her, but not me. Never me!"

He spins suddenly and presents me with his back, which is heaving.

"Fuck, Pete," I whisper. "I had no idea."

"No one in this family has any idea."

"I thought..."

"Of course I don't approve of your lifestyle," he says, turning back to me. "I think it's wrong and I can't change that but that doesn't mean I never want to speak to you again. I'm not Dad."

So now we are staring at each other, aware that we both want to talk but having no idea where to start. "Okay," I allow, figuring it can't hurt. "You're not Dad."

Something in him seems to loosen. "And Casey's not your boyfriend."

"No."

He swallows. "Do you — do you have a boyfriend?"

"Yes."

"Why didn't he come?"

"I asked him not to."

He gives me a long, revising look. Suddenly we both seem to be out of steam, and with nothing to say.

"Where do you live, anyway?" I ask.

"Milwaukee."

"Hmm."

"I'm a manager in an accounting firm."

"I'm a chef."

"I know."

We are quiet some more, not really sure what to do with this sudden accord that has risen up between us. Then I venture, "I'm sorry if it seems like I'm stealing the limelight."

"I don't want the limelight — just some appreciation."

"I'm sure Mom appreciates you."

"If she did she would never say so."

I sigh, "That's true. Look, you know she was just making a little drama by asking me to sit next to her. I'm sorry, it felt like it wasn't worth arguing about." Looking at him, I add, "If it helps, I don't think I'm ever coming back here again."

"But..."

"But what?"

"She's your mother."

"I don't fit here." I shrug. "I remember I told this friend of mine that you can never go home, not really. I still think that's true."

Peter looks regretful but doesn't disagree. "That's sad."

"Not really. I have a home...it's just not here."

"Huh. Well, do you think you might be able to stand talking to me once in a while? I'll never claim to understand the way you live but I would like to know what you're up to...if you're alive."

I can dismiss the way he says The way you live, as though he actually knows enough to disapprove of it. I even let him have a smile. "I can do that. Can't help you with Mom, but I can do that."

"I guess that's not your fault anyway," he admits. "It's not even about you, it's been building up for weeks now."

I could well imagine.

"Yeah," he sighs. "You don't have to comment. Let's just go back in, shall we?"

"Sure. Hey — it looks like Casey and Jason and I are going out for a few drinks tonight. Do you want to join us?"

He stares for a second, then says, "I could use a drink."

When we get back, Casey and Jason have abandoned the table and are playing some sort of game with the two little girls, one that involves running, giggling and shrieking. I am more embarrassed than ever by the notion that people believe I am with Casey. While I know that to some people — namely, Zeke — he exudes sex appeal, to me he is just so very young. He might as well be my kid brother.

I can see Peter is thinking something similar as he watches the goings-on. I can also see Ernie watching Casey from time to time and I wonder. Maybe Jason wasn't so very far off, calling Ernie a closet case — or maybe Jason has missed the boat altogether. Maybe it is a fascination, yes, a horrified fascination that some people have for anything that abuses their assumptions about the world. The more the Ernies watch, the more they wonder about themselves and so they keep watching, looking for a way to have the thing make sense. And they start to hate the thing making them watch instead of admitting that they hate themselves.

Isn't that right, Roy?

I do try not to dwell on Roy too much, because it still does make me angry. Confronting him will accomplish nothing, as Zeke has already proved. Still, I have an imagination. I do picture myself showing up at his apartment or his office, like Zeke did, and demanding an accounting. For a while after Zeke told me about his visit, I had it in my head that I would write Roy a letter, something so insightful and powerful that after reading it he would be stricken with desperate guilt and never forgive himself. I even wrote a few first drafts consisting of a paragraph or two each before I gave up. I realized that Roy has already done what, for him, is an act of profound generosity: He has expressed his intention to ignore Casey's existence from here on in. Zeke says I can't be entirely sure of that, but I do feel quite sure. Call it intuition, or call it confidence in Roy's terror of public embarrassment. Whatever it is, he is going to stay away as a gesture of good faith that we will stay away from him. The last thing any of us should want to do is go stirring Roy up at this point.

I could get angry or outraged at Ernie now too, but I have learned enough to know that to acknowledge him is to give him too much power. Like Roy, he is pitiful to me. There will always be Ernies and Roys and Walter Johanssons, people who allow their fear of community judgment to determine who they are and what they do, getting all twisted up inside as a result and twisting everyone else too. I don't hate them. I feel sorry for them, because I sincerely doubt that they will ever know love — real, authentic love, not necessarily anything to do with sex or romance or blood.

I've gotta think that wherever my father is, he's figured that out now.

 

Losing someone is exhausting. First off, part of you is torn out, and if that isn't enough, people descend upon you, determined never to leave you alone for an instant. Their intentions are good, but they place the pressure and responsibility upon you of having to respond in kind to their efforts.

I'm not talking about me here so much as I am my mother. I can only imagine what she's feeling. I haven't seen my father in years so I certainly don't miss him like she must...and still I am exhausted with all the activity. After the official reception there is the unofficial reception back at the house. There are more meat trays, more casseroles, another frozen lasagna. An entire turkey, frozen solid, that goes right into the deep freeze. Apparently, Mom won't feel like cooking for the next year. I know that all this giving comes from a good place but at the same time...I'm just worn out.

In addition to the socializing, there are the children. They know what's going on but it doesn't touch them in the same way, and they are being their normal, slightly rambunctious selves. At some point, Casey volunteers to take them out on a photographic field trip, brilliantly removing the irritants of both himself and the children. And I wish I could dream up a reason not to let him go but he is quite comfortable, unthreatened by them or by this particular part of the world that scares the bejeezus out of me.

Instead, I end up trapped in the living room, making small talk with various relatives and friends. I have been completely deprived of any role in the kitchen, which is firmly occupied by Anna and Mrs. Garner. I repeatedly answer questions about how long I am staying, what I do, where I live and so on, until I begin to wish I could just hang a sign around my neck that reads: I'm staying until tomorrow, when I fly back to Seattle. I work as a chef there. Yes, I like it very much.

Around suppertime, Casey and the girls are back, spilling into the living room like a river bursting its seams. Britney, I can see, has fallen in love with him, and Peter's girl also seems pretty enamoured — I really should find out her name at some point. "We took pictures!" Britney crows. "Casey's going to email them to me, Mommy!"

"Really?" Anna replies, casting an approving look upon Casey. "What were the pictures of?"

"Flowers!"

"There are flowers out?"

"Some little ones!"

I appeal silently to Casey, desperate for him to do something now to get me out of this house, to go for a walk or something. He meets my gaze but looks blank and I must say, I am disappointed that after all this time he doesn't know how to read my mind.

Inadvertently, Jason offers rescue. "I'm going out for a smoke," he says to Casey. "Wanna come along?" Jason has been stepping out for smokes all afternoon. He's had that excuse while I had none.

"Um..." Casey hesitates. "Okay."

"I'll join you," I throw in quickly.

When we get out there, Jason immediately lights up and I know that he's having a hard time too, just by the way that he sucks on that cigarette. I recognize need when I see it, and my crankiness towards him dissolves.

"I'm — " Casey says. "I think I should call Z — call home."

He has his needs too. He's been separated from Zeke for nearly forty-eight hours now. As for Zeke, he will be climbing the walls and chain smoking, or he would if Stokely let him. He's been obliged to go elsewhere for his nasty habit since he moved in with her. I hope that it's slowed him down a bit.

I join Jason in leaning against the wall of our house, watching him puff, and my normally repressed, archaic urge to smoke begins to rear its head. I decide I will resist; if I could watch Jason escaping periodically all afternoon, I can go the rest of the day and then this will pass.

"I think I should tell you," Jason says once Casey is well out of earshot but still in sight, chattering to Zeke in Seattle, "I know Casey's not your boyfriend."

I roll my eyes. It seems that no one believes me around here — and I'm kind of relieved. "Oh, yeah?"

"I asked him and he admitted it."

"Great," I mutter. "Now everyone thinks I'm a liar."

"Not everyone," Jason teases. God, the smoke from his cigarette smells good. "Just me." He adds, "I don't care if you're with him or not."

"Oh?"

"Yeah. I..." Jason plays with a tiny puddle, drawing a wet line on the asphalt with his toe. "I want you to know...I don't really mind...I mean, not that you care what I think."

"I care," I say softly, touching his arm.

He glances up at me, then away. "I was confused when they kicked you out. I kept asking what you did and they would never say. Pete finally told me."

I shake my head, appalled at my own self-centredness. I could have at least tried to stay in touch with my siblings, especially my little brother who had kind of looked up to me. Peter was right; I've been so totally wrapped up in my own drama, and then Casey's, I forgot about the impact on my brothers and sister. I just assumed they hated me along with everyone else in the family.

"I'm sorry, Jason," I say now. "Really."

He shakes his head, looking embarrassed. I must remember that Jason is your typical dude, or your typical twenty-four-year old dude, at least. He is not accustomed to talking about his feelings at any length. "Do you email?" he asks.

"Sometimes."

"I'll give you my email at school. Maybe I could even come to Seattle?"

I am astonished. "Sure, Jase." I doubt it will ever happen, but I'm touched that he would suggest it.

"Damn, I wish we could just go have a beer right now," Jason says.

"Yeah."

"Actually...I wish this was all over and I could just go back to school." He tosses a look sideways, openly begging me to tell him it is all right, that he is not terrible.

"I know what you mean," I say.

"Yeah?"

"Yeah. I kind of...want everything to be normal again. And it's not like I'm not going to be thinking about Dad, or that I'm not sad...but life just goes on. There's no way to stop it. And I wouldn't want to."

He nods, seemingly more comfortable now. For several moments I indulge in the fantasy of getting to know this boy, my brother. Of him visiting, the two of us laughing sometimes and talking seriously sometimes, me showing him all the best of Seattle. Then I force this all out of my head. This is the stuff of unhappiness, this...this wanting something that might not ever happen. If it does, I will be happy about it, but I will not expect anything.

Casey is back, busy tucking his cellphone away in a pocket.

"How's Zeke?" I ask.

"Okay. I think..." Casey bites his lip, then continues, "I think he's mad at me."

"Kitten," I warn.

"I'm just saying," he defends. "He sounds like he does when he's mad about something completely irrational. Like he's fighting it but he still can't help it." Casey hunches a bit. "Think I'll go in now for a bit."

"Okay."

The screen door swings shut after Casey, followed by the heavier thud of the inner door. Jason drops the remains of his cigarette and stomps on it.

"You really shouldn't do that," I say.

"What?"

"Smoke."

"Sasha..." Jason groans. "I don't usually so much...just when I'm in bars, usually."

"Uh-huh."

"I'm going to stop. As soon as this is all over."

"That's good."

"He's really different."

"What?"

"Casey. He's different."

I consider possible answers. "He's had a different life," I settle on. "But hey, what about me? Aren't I different?"

"Sure," Jason says, and pats my arm for a second. "You're plenty different."

"Don't do me any favours."

"It's just different in a different way."

"Oh, that makes a whole lot of sense."

"Okay, then, screw you. You're totally normal."

"How dare you!" I cry, being sure to sound facetious. But I do feel an odd jealousy towards Casey, suddenly. I'm used to being the alien in the family, after all. With him around, I am boringly ordinary...and how silly is this, anyway? I'm actually mourning for the pain of being the outsider? If anyone should know how not easy it is to be Casey, it's me. I think it's just — being here, in Butler Lake and with Casey, means that all my assumptions about myself, the things I count on for my identity, all those things are right in my face. For years now I have prided myself on my strength in overcoming my own life drama, thinking I'm to be congratulated on my lack of bitterness when I've really built my identity on being Sasha, Cast Out at Sixteen, isn't he amazing and brave? Meanwhile, I have had three siblings who wouldn't have minded being allowed into my life, and the people of Butler Lake have been unexpectedly gracious, even if it is just ordinary good manners.

"What's wrong?" Jason asks.

"Nothing."

I'm just full of shit, is all. Still. Again.

God, I can't wait until it feels like the right time to head out to the bar.

By the time that the visitors have thinned it is well and truly evening, and I have figured out that it is only right that Anna come along too. She barely blinks when I mention it to her, leading me to think that Peter might have already invited her...which is just fine. We decide that we should go to Dad's place, to Miller's. There is some hesitation, but only because we're afraid of running into Ernie or Ted there, but once we have seen Ernie escorted home by Aunt Lucy, well on his way to passing out, we figure it's safe enough.

This bar is the place my father came nearly every day of his life. It is really quite a dive but the only other option is the Scandinavian Hall down the street, which is more popular with the younger crowd and bound to be noisy. My dad's watering hole is so very like Moe's on The Simpsons, it's funny. It's a dirty space with a bunch of horny old regulars, a stained bar, a few ramshackle booths. We get a pitcher and sit at a booth, the five of us. I am worried that Casey is not welcome but there is no question of leaving him amongst my mother and her guests, not tonight, and I see no signs from Anna or Peter that they resent his presence.

Five glasses are brought; there is no concern about the legalities, it seems. I say nothing as Jason pours and Casey reaches for one with a mischievous glance at me. I deliberately don't react. He takes a sip, making a face that is absolutely charming in its childlike distaste.

Jason laughs at him. "I know, it's kind of crappy." And he takes down half of his glass. If I didn't know better, I would say he's showing off.

I pace myself. I am not a big drinker; in truth I have just been looking forward to getting out of that house. I am happy to sit here and watch Jason and Casey being young, while Peter and Anna talk about legal and financial details. Much of it goes over my head, but the gist of it seems to be that Uncle Jake is going to buy out my mother's interest in the auto repair business and that, along with her pension, should be enough for her to survive on. My father owned the house and so now title has passed to her and she will only have to worry about the taxes.

Soon, talk turns to Peter and Anna's lives in Milwaukee. They see each other quite often, apparently. The other three of us at the table are somewhat left out, and so I decide that it is time to wrest away some control of the conversation.

"Hey," I say, after our second pitcher has been delivered. "Let's drink a toast."

My older siblings stare uneasily at me.

"To our father. Walter Johansson. He wasn't perfect, but he worked hard in his life and he tried to teach us the important stuff."

There are looks of relief and gratitude all around. "To Walter!" chorus the others, Casey included.

"You know what I was thinking about," Peter says, wiping foam off his lip. "Remember how he took us all camping and he would work his butt off setting up that stupid fold-out camper while we goofed off? I always wondered why he did that. Where was the fun in it for him?"

"He did get to go fishing," Anna suggests.

"He could have done that by himself," I say. "He wanted us to have that experience."

"You went camping?" Casey puts in, and giggles.

"I don't know what you're implying."

Anna snickers.

"Oh, shit, I'd love to see Sasha in the wild," Casey adds.

Peter finally seems willing to relax and join the fun. "Mr. Fancy Pants stayed in the trailer all weekend."

"Yeah," I chime in, "and who got a decent night's sleep while the rest of you were scratching and whining?"

"I think that's part of the fun," Jason intones.

"I prefer to take my fun more like fun."

Casey says, "I heard you promise Jerry — "

I cut him off. "— shh!"

"What?" Jason urges.

"Casey," I warn.

He is the incarnation of naughty, looking directly my way as he informs on me. "He promised Jerry he would go camping this summer."

"Jerry?" Anna wonders.

"His boyfriend."

I give Casey's arm a smack, just a tap really, looking to Anna who still doesn't know about my lie — except Anna doesn't seem all that surprised. "Just a sec," I say. "Did anyone ever believe me when I said — ?"

"I was shocked for a few minutes," Anna says. "Then I realized you were totally yanking our chain. You always liked to go for the shock value."

"I can't believe this."

"And Pete told me you told him."

I mutter, "Crap."

"You didn't have to lie to us, you know," Anna says. "If your boyfriend didn't feel comfortable about coming...that's understandable."

It is confirmed. I am an absolute ass.

"So tell us about him," Anna finishes.

I look to Peter. He is drinking his beer and doesn't look entirely comfortable, but he isn't going to protest.

"His name is Jerry...like Casey mentioned."

"Yeah, we got that part," Jason snarks.

"He's very tall and fit. He likes to work out. Actually...he's just kind of an ordinary guy. He even has these blockheaded ideas about camping and climbing mountains and shit like that...kind of like Pete here."

Peter protests, "I've never thought I need to climb a mountain. And I haven't been camping in years."

"But you hunt."

"For the meat."

"Tell us more about Jerry," Anna cuts in.

"He's just a really kind, thoughtful, decent guy," I say. "Family means everything to him." I falter, once again appreciating what I have done, how compared to Jerry I am a complicated mess, and it gets very quiet. I finish, "Obviously, he's very patient."

I get the laugh I was going for, and the mood is once again lighthearted at the booth. The conversation turns to childhood memories, remembering the good times with our father and mother, the tangles and sometimes all-out war between the four of us. Like the time Anna and Jason and I had a sleep out in the back yard (Jason being included only under duress) and ended up convincing ourselves in the middle of the night that there was Something out there, and we ran screaming for the house. I was twelve at the time but Anna was all of fifteen, and got the stern talking to the next morning, poor girl.

There was the time that Dad and Mom took us to Cedar Point Amusement Park in Ohio. That was one of my best memories, even if I did throw up after the Tilt-A- Whirl. I seem to recall that Dad looked a little green too.

Or the time I knocked out one of Jason's teeth with a frisbee...completely by accident of course. I also remember, fondly, helping Anna get ready for her first date, giving her my opinions on colours and accessories. Could anyone have actually been surprised at my coming out? Yeah, apparently they could.

After a few hours and four pitchers we're all feeling pretty upbeat and in love with the world. Casey has had a glass or two himself and he is smiling a lot, giggling at random moments. Impromptu, he takes out his phone and calls Zeke to tell him he is drunk for the first time ever.

"Hi, Zeke. Guess what? I'm drunk."

Zeke has a comment.

"Two glasses."

This is undoubtedly where Zeke tells Casey he's a lightweight.

"Yeah, I know. Hey, Zeke? I miss you...if I were there, you know what I'd do?" Everyone at the table suddenly goes quiet, but the sultry tone in Casey's voice disappears, drowned in a shriek of laughter. "I was hoping you would remember that!" Casey hugs the phone to his chest and tells us breathlessly, "He did Jimmy." Peter gulps, no doubt taking this the wrong way. I make pleading eyes at Casey and he explains, "He said that line ‘but you were somewhat worse for wine'...er, well, it's champagne but Zeke said ‘somewhat worse for beer...and there are rules about those things.' He does a really good impersonation of Jimmy's accent." Casey is glowing right now, and I wonder how he can not realize that he loves Zeke. "Here," Casey says, shoving the phone at me.

"Zeke," I say into it.

"Hey, Sasha."

"You impersonated Jimmy Stewart again?"

"I guess I did. Sasha, why are you letting him drink?"

"Oh, really, sweetie. I know you don't care that much if he has a few beers."

"Maybe I do."

"Nope. I don't buy it."

"Who's driving?"

"Zeke, honey — we'll walk home."

"Sasha..."

"Yah?"

"Is everything okay?"

"Everything's just fine." I wink at Casey. "We'll be home late tomorrow night. You wanna come pick us up at the airport?"

"Sure, I guess. What's your flight number?"

"Don't remember. I just remember we land around 9:00 or something like that."

"Okay, but...um, how did the funeral go?"

"Like you'd expect. My brothers and sister and Casey and me are just out for a drink right now and I think I'll phone Jerry."

"Isn't he at work?"

Shit. Right. Stupid of me, like Jerry isn't at work every night of the week. I should have called earlier but I forgot and now it looks like I am not going to be keeping my promise, yet again.

"Crap," I sigh. "Well...I'm gonna go."

"Sasha, don't let Casey drink too much."

"Not to worry, sweetie!" I don't bother to tell him that Casey actually switched to soda, over an hour ago now. He said the beer was making him dizzy.

We sign off. I get up and go into the men's bathroom, where I call Jerry's answering machine and leave a message that will probably embarrass me when I think about it in the morning. I then go back to the table, only to discover that everyone is getting ready to leave.

"Hey!"

"We've got spouses holding the fort," Peter explains. "And we need time to sober up before driving back to the hotel."

"But it's only..." I seek the time, spot it above the bar. "...nine-thirty."

"Sorry," Peter says briefly. He claps a hand on my shoulder. "Listen. Anna and I were talking and we think we should have a Johansson sibling reunion — this fall, we were thinking. I'll play host. What do you say?"

I feel my eyes get heavy, my throat filling. "Even though I'm a...self-centered jerk?"

Peter shakes his head and clears his throat. "If you can't be a jerk with your family, when can you?"

"Right," I say, my voice hoarse.

"So you'll come."

"Yes, I...and...I'd like to bring Jerry."

He just nods, looking elsewhere, then breaks away, heading for the door.

"But I don't want to go back to that house," I proclaim to whomever might be listening. "Not yet."

"Ditto," Jason's voice agrees from behind me. "Why don't we just go for a walk? We can walk down to the lake." He appeals to Casey. "What do you say?"

"I dunno," I hedge. "Kitten...it gets a bit cold here at night."

"Oh, Sasha!" Casey complains. "Give me a break, I'm not going to catch pneumonia."

"Okay," I relent. "Okay."

It is actually quite lovely out. You never know what you'll get here in early June, but tonight it has decided to be almost-summer. They sky holds only a few clouds, giving us a glorious, full celestial display the likes of which can never be enjoyed in the city. God, I had forgotten that. I stare up at the sky while I walk, occasionally staggering a little, following the sound of Jason and Casey talking about science fiction movies. It has become a game of "have you seen?" and "wasn't that just the worst?"

Now we are at the municipal beach. There is a small boat launch, and a few kids are sitting around a fire there. We greet them as we pass, continuing on along the sand until we get to the edge of the beach and the path that goes around the lake. "Let's do the path," Jason proposes.

"Uh, no," I return. It isn't a long way, maybe a mile altogether as this is actually quite a small lake, linked by a shallow channel into a series of deeper, larger lakes. There is a rope and wood bridge across the narrowest point of the channel and I've crossed it many times in my life. It was something we all did in the course of normal summer day activities, as kids. I just don't feel like revisiting it tonight. I want to sit here on the beach and stare up at the stars.

But Jason is obsessed, for some reason. "Casey, you want to?"

"No," I decree, immediately.

"Why not?"

"It's dark. There could be bears."

"I know the path, the moon is out and there could be bears anywhere in this town at any time. Anyway, you know they're probably all hanging out at the dump."

"Casey," I plead.

Casey's face is in shadow, but I have the impression that he's wearing that determined look. He says, "I want to, Sasha."

Of course he does. Because I said he shouldn't I throw up my hands. "Fine. Whatever. I'm going to stay here." I crook my finger at Jason, drawing him aside. "You can't touch him," I warn.

He reacts like I punched him. "What? I'm not — "

"Okay, I didn't mean that how it sounds."

"What do you think I am?"

"I mean — literally, Jason. Don't brush arms or pat his hand or anything. Got it?"

Jason stares at me. "I get it — sorta."

I'm not really worried. Not much. This is child's play, literally. When kids get hurt around here, it's almost always alcohol-and-boat related, or alcohol-and-snow- machine. The path is very well worn, broad, and they will be back in an hour or less. I sit down on a convenient log to wait, staring at the stars reflected in Butler Lake. It is a calm night, bright with moonlight.

Of course, my mind goes immediately to my mother. Some of my worries have been put to rest. She will be able to get along just as she is, it seems. Good for her. Finances will not be a problem, and there will be people around constantly to check on her. Jason will be home in the summers and Peter and Anna will be around...not to mention my uncles and aunts and the neighbours. She has plenty of support, and I have seen no signs that she is devastated by grief.

That's funny, I sound like I'm mad at her, or judging her. I'll admit I was annoyed by her little manipulation this afternoon, but she was just being Doris Johansson. She doesn't have the luxury of just spitting out her feelings like some of us. Or is it that some of us don't have the luxury of not spitting them out? Yeah, some of us have learned all too well after watching her for a number of years that keeping things in doesn't pay off. After a while, you seem to forget what it was you were hiding and it just stays there, going sour and rotten.

I don't know what is going on here. I am not in denial because I'm not that angry. I am a little angry. No one would blame me, but it's not like I'm walking around thinking about the rough deal I got, and who to blame for it. That's not my style...or is this what Casey means by denial? Is denial where you never think it and never feel it but you have to assume it's there nonetheless? This must be some sort of conspiracy invented by shrinks, then. You could never win, no matter how you protested.

"I'm not in denial," I say out loud. It sounds true.

I put my head down on my knees and close my eyes, just for a second...

And the next thing I know, Casey is shaking me gently. I have actually fallen asleep sitting up. "Mmm..." I say, smacking my lips. I don't like what I am tasting. "Hey...you lived."

"What?"

"You're alive. What time ‘zit?"

"After eleven."

"What took s' long?"

"It was trickier than I expected," Jason admits.

"Hah. Told you."

"Let's go back, I'm really tired."

I'm no longer intoxicated, just exhausted. I stumble home, a trek that seems to take forever this time. Entering through the back door, we find only Mom and Mrs. Garner sitting at the kitchen table.

"Oh," I say. "Everyone left?"

"Yes," Mom says. "I'm just having a cup of tea before bed. What time do you have to leave in the morning?"

"Pretty early. Like...seven."

"I'll get up and make you some breakfast."

Something lances through me, white-hot. It hurts, and it burns and I'm thinking, how can she just announce that she'll get up and make breakfast? Is that the most she can offer? Cooking and tending to a person's bodily needs is no substitute for really caring, hasn't she fucking figured that out at her age?

"You don't have to," I say.

"I'd like to."

"I'll get up too," Jason says. "Well...good night."

"Good night," Casey says. "Thanks for the walk."

"No problem."

Jason descends into the basement, to the room that was once mine and is now his.

"I'm gonna go to bed too," I say, not looking at my mother. If I do, I might start yelling. "Kitten, you want the bathroom?"

"Yes," Casey whispers, and slithers past me and through the kitchen, leaving me — nearly — alone with my mother and her neighbour.

"So did you have a good time?" asks Mrs. Garner.

I think I am intended to feel guilty — well, I don't. We have not actually done anything wrong. In some societies, they make it a ritual to have a big party when someone dies. "Yeah, it was kind of like...a wake."

"Your father would have liked that," my mother comments.

Yeah, he would have at that.

I hear the bathroom door, meaning that I can take my turn, brush my teeth and get to bed. "Well, I'm gonna...turn in."

Maybe my mother has been waiting for the last possible second to say something meaningful to me? If so, this is probably the moment, and I hold my breath.

She says, "Good night."

Right. I am wasting my time here. I hold in place for just one additional moment, then start in the direction of the bathroom. I pause to say, "Will you make sure we're up by six?"

"Sure."

I am perhaps a little more vigourous brushing my teeth than I need to be. Slipping into my pajamas, I pack away all my junk except what I will need in six hours, and go to my couch. Casey is already stretched out on the other, in the half-dark, his chest rising and falling gently. Right now I really wish that we had taken the hotel option, so we would have a bed to share, to cuddle in. Maybe Casey would even listen sympathetically while I rant about my surviving parent.

I have to own up, as I lay there listening to my mother bid her neighbour goodnight, to the brief sounds of puttering in the kitchen and then to preparations for bed — as all the lights in the house are switched off and there is just me, wide awake with my thoughts — I have to own up. I have to own up. I will be leaving within hours here. I have to make sure she knows how I feel.

Okay, let's try this on for size, then: I am pissed. I am really, really pissed.

If this hadn't happened I might not have become pissed, or would have gone on repressing being pissed if indeed I was pissed all along. I just don't know.

I came home after twelve years out of an admirable sense of duty, and she can't bring herself to do more than offer me a place to sit. I think that something more in the way of a gesture is needed, considering that — they kicked me out for being me! I was only sixteen, I was terrified and devastated, and the worst wasn't his reaction, it was hers. He was who he was. He acted accordingly, but her — she went along, even convinced herself it was right because it was what he expected. Or may not, maybe it was her wish too. The thing is, I just don't know. I think she might have let him be the bad guy, said nothing so we could all assume she was just as much a victim as me — oh, hell, I don't know.

So of course, I get almost no sleep again. I don't know how I'm going to just go back to work when I get home, at this rate. I envy Casey, who sleeps as though he hasn't a care, barely moving or making a sound. It's odd — but he used to sleep like that when he was in terrible distress too, just laying down, closing his eyes as though he hoped to never open them. I guess the world is divided between those of us who sleep in times of stress, and those of us who don't.

I am awake when my mom's alarm goes off. I wait until she is in the kitchen and then duck into the bathroom, where I take as long a shower as I dare, trying to simultaneously wake myself and calm myself down. It doesn't work too well.

Shortly after, I arrive in the kitchen, dressed and packed and ready to go. As promised, Mom is standing at the stove making pancakes and bacon. I sit for a moment, but just for a moment. I can't stay still.

"I think I'll load up the car first."

I make it last, going out into the crisp air and loading in my suitcase, collecting the few scraps of garbage that have accumulated over the last day and a half. I am well aware that I am being a coward, and I hate myself. This is not the Sasha Johansson that I know.

When I get back, Casey is up. He is sitting at the table in his sleep sweats, bleary-eyed, staring at the floor, while Mom stands at the stove holding a pancake flipper. Her back is to him.

"Casey," I say quietly. "Why don't you get ready to go?"

He blinks at me, takes in the state of my face, and goes without a word. I take three or four steps, until I am standing next to my mother. She glances up only briefly, then down at the pancake that is beginning to form bubbles around the edges.

"Mom. I have a question for you."

"Yes, Alex?"

She is still looking at the pancake.

"Are you content with your three children or would you like your fourth back?"

She barely moves. Finally, she flips the pancake, revealing one side as a perfect golden-brown. "What do you mean?"

And here I had thought that I couldn't possibly be any more straightforward. "You know what I mean."

"No, I don't."

"Mom, I am quite prepared to walk out that door and never come back. Is that what you want?"

The moment I say it, I feel I have gone too far, pushed her too hard. But that is my stock in trade, isn't it? I don't have the time, nor the patience, for navigating around people's notions of reserve or politeness or denial. I particularly don't have time now.

But she just doesn't speak. She is gazing at the cupboard and not saying a word. I see strain in her, I see that there is emotion there but she can't seem to get it past her lips.

"Mom. What are you doing?"

"I'm cooking breakfast."

"And I'm standing here waiting for an answer to my question."

The pan is smoking. She removes it from the heat and says, "I can't."

"You can't...what? Can't talk? I'm not that scary, Mom...just say it."

She shakes her head.

"For God's sake," I whisper. I hear a sound. I realize that Jason is there, just at the top of the stairs.

"I need to make the pancakes."

"Forget the fucking pancakes," I snarl. "I'm standing right here. I'm here, Mom. Talk to me, tell me something — " I put a hand on her, intending to plead, or maybe force her to face me, to express something, do something. Stand up and be counted, just for once. She pulls away with an almost-grunt, a pitiful little sound.

"Sasha," Jason says. "Please."

I step back. I do not feel hurt so much as impossibly disappointed. I may seem swishy to a lot of people, but let me tell you, I can be as hard as nails. I am not going to cry over this. I was just being as generous as I possibly could, I have given her the chance to —

No. I am not done yet. I made this mistake with my father and my siblings, I am not going to make it again.

"All right," I say. "Mom, if you ever decide you have something to say to me, ask Anna how to contact me." And I head to the door. "Tell Casey I'll be in the car."

"Sasha — "Jason protests.

"Tell him no rush." I lean forward and embrace Jason lightly. "Do you want to write down your email and give it to Casey?"

"Already done." He hugs me back, without reserve. "But Sasha — "

"No, shh. I can't stay here."

Of course, I know it is very unlikely that Casey will want to hang in there for the promise of pancakes. I am counting on it, in fact.

Sure enough, in about ten minutes, Casey is out the door with his suitcase and backpack, his face rather inquisitive but not especially distressed. "Sasha?" he says, breathless.

"I want to leave now. We'll find a place for breakfast. All right?"

He shrugs. "Are you okay?"

"Fine. Did my mother say anything?"

"Um...no. I said thank you and...I'm sorry...about the pancakes. She just nodded."

I shake my head, and I begin to feel just how tired I am. "Here."

Casey looks down — at the keys I am offering. He looks up. "You want me to..."

"Yes. I want you to drive."

"Really?"

"I didn't get any sleep last night."

A grin spreads on his face. He snatches the keys from me and scrambles to the driver's side. I sigh, realizing that I am going to be kept awake by adrenaline now, by watching and worrying. "Stay in the right lane," I command when the car starts to move. "On the highway, I mean...and keep it under sixty."

"Sasha. I've got it under control."

"Hmm."

To my surprise, he does. At least enough that after ten or fifteen minutes, my eyelids grow heavy. "You hungry?" I slur.

"Nah...can wait."

"Me too. When we get to Joneston, maybe...we'll have breakfast then."

"Un-huh."

It is not great sleep; the kind where you constantly feel like you're awake yet somehow the time whips by. It seems barely any time at all before we are pulling into the parking lot of some diner. I straighten, yawning, and meet Casey's questing gaze. "Is

this okay?" he asks, turning off the ignition.

"It looks fine." For all I know, I have eaten here before. It does look busy which is a good sign.

We have what proves to be a very satisfying breakfast. I eat a lot more than I usually would, enjoying the simplicity of eggs and toast, and even ham. There is little conversation, although I sense that Casey is wanting to start it up.

"I can't wait to see Zeke," he says, towards the end of the meal, announcing it almost like it's a surprise to him.

"Well," I remark.

"I didn't think I would."

This saddens me, a little. "You didn't?"

"It's just...I see him every day, and we've only been gone a couple. I thought it would take longer...to miss him."

"You know, kitten, when you're with someone, you don't have to give them first dibs on every second of your time."

"I know."

"Zeke wants to be with you constantly, and that's a little worrying."

"He wants to know what I'm doing is all."

"Like I said...worrying. But he does genuinely like your company." I cant my head slightly. "How do you think he's going to take this plan of yours...to go out and...and see people?"

"I don't plan to tell him."

I sigh. "I've gotten into trouble, keeping secrets from him."

"It's not like he has to know."

I press my lips together.

"Right?"

My eyebrows lower.

"Right?" Casey insists.

"Of course," I allow. "Of course it's your business, Casey. Just — will you take precautions? Don't go to a stranger's house without telling me where you are? Just let me know where you are?"

"That's why I asked for your help in the first place," Casey whispers.

"Oh, kitten. Does this scare you, maybe just a bit?"

"Of course," he snaps. "That's why I have to...and I'm not just scared. I want things..."

I can't help but check if anyone seems to be hearing us. The waitress walks by, refilling my coffee cup. No one seems to be in a hurry. "Tell me again," I beg. "What does Yves think?"

"She doesn't make my decisions."

"I know, but what does she think?"

"She thinks I should be careful, and we should talk about whatever does happen."

"So she hasn't..."

Casey doesn't help me. He just stares, waiting perhaps but not particularly concerned about the prospect of my failing to complete the question. I've been noticing, more and more, this inscrutability in him. He has the ability to suddenly become an absolute stranger — and well, there's more to it, but I lack the ability to put it into words. It's something special, but in a way that makes him go away from me...makes me afraid for him too.

"...she hasn't actually given her opinion as to whether or not sex...is a good idea? Not that you have to tell me, of course."

"Does it matter what she thinks?"

"You're making me a little bit crazy here, kitten. What do you think?"

"I think," Casey answers softly, "that it only matters to you what she thinks because you're assuming she agrees with you."

Something about his tone has me feeling hard-done-by. I snap, "I don't have an opinion."

There was a time when this response from me would have had Casey cowering in abject apology. Instead, he just laughs softly, shaking his head.

I am distinctly annoyed now. "I said I don't have an opinion, and I don't. If she says it's okay, then I believe her."

"It doesn't work like that," Casey insists, now in a fine tremble. "I told you."

We are having a full-fledged fight, which as far as I can remember has never happened before. Oh, I know we've had heated discussions and he has been angry at me, but I have never felt angry towards him. He doesn't know what he's getting into, and he's doing this just to get under my skin. And Zeke's. I really thought he was making progress, that he didn't need to pull this shit anymore.

I'm afraid I'm going to say things that will hurt, so instead I say, "Can I borrow the cell?"

"Yeah, but..."

"What?"

"I doubt there's service here."

"If there was service in Butler Lake there's probably service here."

He shrugs and hands me the phone. I get up from the booth and go into the lobby in between the diner and convenience store, and call Jerry's number.

For the first time in a while, Casey is wrong. Jerry sounds drunk with sleep when he answers.

"Babe, it's me," I say.

"Hey, babe...what's the time?"

"eight something, for you. How late were you up?"

"Till six."

"Oh, hon! What were you doing?"

"A few of us went for drinks after work, then we went to Kwang's after."

"I'm sorry."

"Nah, nah...how's everything?"

"Better, now that I've left that house."

"You're..."

"In Joneston."

"Joneston?"

"It's a little hole-in-the-wall. We're on our way to the airport."

"Already?"

"Yeah, well...I needed to get out of there, Jerry. I couldn't take it."

"What? Take what?"

"I didn't want to eat breakfast there."

There is a pause. Then, "You sound upset."

"Yeah, well, I've just been talking to Casey. He's..." There is a fairly steady traffic here; I decide to step outside, walking away from the building as I talk. "He's got it in his head that he should go out on the town when we get back and get some."

"Really? Like...on a date?"

"No, not a date. Just ‘hook up,' he says. Pick up some schmoe in a club who'll do him in a back alley."

"You told him to be careful, I hope."

"Jerry! Do you not understand what's happening here?"

This time the pause is a little longer, and Jerry's voice is a lot tighter. "No, I guess I don't understand. Why don't you explain it?"

"He's not ready to do this. He's just acting out again and he refuses to tell me what Yves says about it. He probably didn't even tell her! Oh, and the best part is, he wants me to help him!"

"Sasha."

"What?" I growl.

"Why does this bother you so much?"

I can't believe he is being this obtuse. "Why does this bother me? Maybe because I just spent twelve years putting him back together and now he wants to go and let people treat him like shit again! He's going to get hurt, Jerry! I can't let him be hurt again, I can't..."

I can't continue, actually.

"Sasha, baby," Jerry says quietly.

I croak, "What?"

"I don't think you think there's anything wrong with casual sex — casual safe sex. Even for Casey."

"I don't know — "

"What's the matter?"

"Huh?"

"What's bothering you, hon?"

I close my eyes, instantly knowing exactly what it is that's bothering me. I knew all along, really, I just let my misery inflect my conversation with Casey. "Oh, my poor kitten — "

"Casey'll forgive you. People will always forgive you, Sasha, no matter what."

"I think I..."

"You what?"

"My mother."

"Your mother..."

"I tried to get her to say she wanted me in her life, Jerry. I asked her...I just wanted her to say something. She wouldn't."

"Babe...I'm sorry."

"All of this time I've been telling myself she was afraid to stand up to my father...about me... but I think she was just using him as her excuse. She may have loved me...but not enough."

"I'm so sorry."

"Yeah." I swallow the ache in my throat, feeling better just for having spoken about this. After all, I'm more or less back where I thought I started, with no parents. "God, I can't wait to get home."

"I can't wait for you to get home either."

"I still have tomorrow off, too."

"I'm going to give you the full treatment, baby."

"Oh! Guess what — ? I reconnected with my brothers and sister."

"Sasha, that's wonderful."

"Yeah, we're probably going to get together this fall. It's so weird."

"What?"

"You can be a total grown-up, totally together and — like Oliver said, then you get around your family and you become this other person, this asshole."

"I don't follow."

"It was like... suddenly I'm this selfish ass."

"You are not."

"See, that's what I'm talking about."

"Huh?"

"I have to tell Oliver I know what he meant."

"You sound really tired, baby."

"I am. Didn't sleep last night."

"You'll be home soon."

"Zeke was going to come pick us up. Why don't you come with him?"

"Yeah...sounds good."

"Jerry..."

"Yeah."

"I love you."

"Love you too."

"And um, when I get back..."

"What?"

I clear my throat, lower my voice to a hush even though there's no one within ten feet of me. "I want you to fuck me senseless."

"Er...I can do that," Jerry strangles.

"Good," I say brightly, knowing I will be leaving him unsatisfied and impatiently considering the next nine hours of waiting that yawn before him "Now go back to sleep."

"You bitch."

With a laugh, I hang up and go back inside the diner, joining Casey at the table where he is waiting, and with every step I am a little bit closer to being myself. He is sitting over the debris over breakfast, his posture glum. His head jerks up when I reseat myself across from him.

"Hi, kitten."

"Hi," he whispers.

"Um...okay, I'm sorry. I was being unreasonable, and it has nothing to do with you."

He blinks like he wants to believe this, waiting for more reassurance.

"I've been upset about my mother. I had — I guess you could say a confrontation — before we left. It didn't go the way I wanted and I just took it out on you. I'm very, very sorry."

"I'm sorry," he says.

"No, no, no. I'm sorry. I insist that you say you forgive me — or not forgive me if you want. But you are forbidden to say you're sorry again."

A tiny smile is forming on his face. "Okay."

"Okay, what?"

"I forgive you."

I sigh with genuine relief, reaching across to squeeze his hand.

"We had a fight," Casey says, like it's a new flavour he's testing out.

"Yeah, we did. And you know — I have to say, even though I fully admit I overreacted, I'm still concerned."

"I know."

"I mean...you could have just kept it to yourself, why would you tell me if you didn't feel a bit...a bit hesitant maybe?"

"For you to help me."

"Help you with what?"

Casey stares at me, and forces it out: "I'm afraid to go to a bar by myself."

And yeah, I still want to argue, to suggest that if walking in a bar is so tough, then sex should be out of the question — but I know that's not necessarily the case. There are plenty of people who struggle with rudimentary socializing, while being more or less capable of all types of other interaction, including sex...and I am being a stubborn twit.

"Okay," I sigh.

"Okay...like...?"

"I'll help you. And I'm sorry. I'm tired and strung out and upset and none of that has anything to do with you. I'll shut up." I reach across, daring to grope for his hand. "It's just that I don't want you to be hurt."

"I know." Casey blinks hard, full of strained calculation. "Sasha, um...what happened with...with your mom?"

"I asked her a direct question. I should have known better, but I did it anyway and when she just acted like herself, I had to get disappointed."

"Oh."

"And you were right about that river in Egypt."

He doesn't smile. He just waits.

"I'm mad," I explain. "I'm really mad at her and I've been mad for a while."

He ventures, "Not your dad?"

"Not so much. Weird, huh?"

"Emotions are always weird."

I crack a smile. "You don't say."

"Can — can I help?"

"No, kitten. Not really. It's not you — it's just that no one can, you understand? But I'll be fine. I'll talk to Jerry and he'll kiss it better and I'll remember I have him and his family, and you and Zeke, and I have my brothers and sister back, and that's quite a lot." I start to get to my feet. "Shall we?"

He nods, sliding off the end of the booth seat. He still has the keys, and no intention of relinquishing them. I'm still in his hands, more or less, which is just as well.


	2. Chapter 2

From: Chloe Severna. Received: January 5, 2002. 02:11 p.m.

Re: Hi

Zeke --- It’s great to hear from you, and don’t worry about typos, I’ll figure it out. I was wondering if you would call or email. I’ve been worried. Jacob too, but you probably don’t want me to say that, huh? Okay, I mentioned the parental unit, that part is done. Now tell me what’s up.

 

January 6, 2002. 09:01 a.m.

Re: Re: Hi

its kind of long anc complicated.

 

January 6, 2002. 09:15 a.m.

Re: Re:Re: Hi

So? You need someone to vent to, so vent! I don’t mind.

 

January 6, 2002. 09:45 a.m.

Re:Re:Re:Re: Hi

okay. You remember me tell you about my boyfriend Casey well we kind of split up. i’m moving in with our friend Stokely for a while. it was kind of a mutual decision. i’m still in his life, though. he knows how i feel and he says that he needs some time to figure things out. i don’t know what it is he has to figure but i’m giving him his space. I have to.

it’s been a bit rough since I took off from LA. All sorts of shit happened and I acted like a fucking jerk, nearly did something awful that I can’t even tell you. I can’t put it out there, what I did. Suffice it to say it was a major fucking wake-up call. I’ve gotta get my head straight.

Except righht now i’m pissed off because the guy I told you Casey cheated on me with, who he didn’t actually cheat on me with. fuck. bad sentence. anyway, this guy, Thomas, he kidnapped Casey the other day. now he’ in hte hospital. Casey and i were talking on the phone this morning and he just blurted out that he wants to go see him. he wants to go see HIM. Motherfucker. but I’ve gotta be all supportive because it’s what Casey wants and technically he’s allowed to go visit this guy if he wants. It may be a ridiculous, irratonal call but i’m supposed to have no say in it. you know i really can’t figure out how caring about someone doesn’t give you the right to call the shots. the more you care the more right you have. the way i figure it.

 

January 6, 2002. 09:55 a.m.

Re:Re:Re:Re:Re: Hi

What do you mean he KIDNAPPED Casey???!!!

 

 

 

 

Zeke knocked once and --- hesitating just a moment because technically he no longer lived here and yet it still felt like a place to which he should have full access --- he let himself into the apartment.

The very first thing he heard was Casey’s phone voice, and he was saying a thing, or two things, a million little aspirated sounds that shot through Zeke’s nervous system like lethal injection.

“Is there a Thomas…um, Thomas Kirton there?”

Now Zeke had Casey in his sights; he was standing in the middle of the kitchen, speaking into the phone. He glanced at Zeke and then sort of glanced away. It was a flinch, nearly.

Zeke was quite conscious that in this mad scenario he was expected to not react; he slipped off his shoes and proceeded to sit at the dining room table. Sasha and Jerry were both planted there --- Sasha, reading a newspaper and Jerry eating a piece of toast. Sasha lowered his newspaper just enough to smile at Zeke.

“What the fuck’s going on?” Zeke hissed.

Jerry noshed on an overly vigorous helping of his toast.

With a shrug, Sasha replied, “Casey wants to go visit Thomas.”

“Oh, he does…?”

“I suggested it.”

“You --- what?”

“I suggested it.”

“Why the fuck would you do that?”

With a flurry of head shakes, Sasha signalled him to silence. Zeke half turned and saw Casey standing there, holding the phone against his chest, and the stare that Casey was giving him couldn’t have been more obvious if he had just handed Zeke a letter: Dear Zeke…Even though I don’t have to explain myself, I am going to tell you that I have the right to choose who I visit and who I don’t visit, and by the way, you can go fuck yourself.

“Any luck, kitten?”

“No.” Casey made a noise of exasperation. “No one will tell me anything.”

Jerry said, around a mouthful of bread, “Why don’t you call that cop and ask him?”

He immediately shrank a little, and it probably had a lot to do with the frown that Sasha directed at him, a frown that seemed to call into question all of Jerry’s opportunities for sex in the forthcoming week --- but it was too late. Casey brightened instantly and said, “That’s a good idea! I’ll be he knows…”

Cradling the phone, he went back to the kitchen.

In the ensuing silence, Jerry brushed crumbs off his hands and rose. “Um…I should get going. Things to do before work…”

“Yes,” Sasha agreed. “You should.”

But he must have relented between there and the door, for Zeke heard the wet report of a kiss just before Jerry made his exit.

“Hello? May I speak to Officer Williams, please…? Casey Connor.”

Zeke tensed and hoped that Williams would want nothing to do with Casey, but he knew it was a vain wish. Quite apart from his general talents at manipulation, Casey had highly-developed skills when it came to getting what he wanted from any adult in a quasi-parental role. It probably had a little to do with Casey being an only child, but Zeke had seen Casey’s parents do backwards somersaults to make him happy, hypnotized by that childlike mien and almost-but-not-quite-over-the-top wheedling note. And Sasha…Zeke could have written a book on the things that Casey could do to Sasha, just with his face.

“Hello…um, hi, this is…yes, Casey…pretty good, sir…”

Sasha reseated himself at the kitchen table. Failing to return to his paper, he folded his arms across his chest and listened with a faintly sardonic expression.

“I was…um…I was wondering if you could help me, sir.”

But of course Officer Williams would have fallen victim to Casey too. Zeke didn’t need to have been there; he could imagine the little-boy-lost scene, Williams making a desperate show of gruffness while his parental instincts, latent or otherwise, roared and prowled, looking for an outlet, and so naturally, when Casey called him with a little request, he would be more than willing to help.

Within ten minutes, he had called Casey back with the name of the hospital.

From the sound of it, Officer Williams had other things to say, though --- and Zeke liked to think that this was the payback for engaging Williams’ parental side. This would be the part where Williams let Casey know that he was far too tolerant of the man who had dragged him along on his little crime spree, and he should just get on with his life.

As Zeke sat at the kitchen table, Casey came in gesturing silently for a piece of paper --- Sasha offered him the receipt from his latest grocery run that had somehow found its way to the table. Casey grabbed it and scribbled on it, bending over the table. He was standing near enough to Zeke that there was a distinct whiff of oranges.

“Seattle West General. Thanks…thank you, sir. When do you think he’ll get out?”

Zeke had no difficulty reconstructing Williams’ comments on that subject. He exchanged a glance with Sasha --- the two of them helplessly listening as Casey exercised his autonomy in choosing friends. Not that Sasha had any right to complain, since he had just revealed that he was the one to put this visiting idea in Casey’s head in the first place. Zeke would have liked to give Sasha a really sharp smack upside the head for that one.

“I will,” Casey said. “Goodbye, sir.” Clicking off, he informed the two of them, “Thomas pled guilty to grand theft auto. The shoplifting…his family paid for the gas and stuff, so it was dropped, and then they dropped the kidnapping.”

“So,” Sasha asked. “What about jail?”

Casey shook his head. “He got a ‘suspended sentence’, Officer Williams said…whatever that means, he doesn’t have to go to jail because the car was returned and he’s an involuntary mental patient anyway.” He frowned to himself, and shifted his weight, staring momentarily at the wall.

“And you got the name of the hospital.”

“Yeah.”

“You want to go this afternoon? After Yves?”

Casey’s head came up, his eyes going bright. “Yeah.”

Before Sasha could ask about using the car, Zeke announced, “I’ll go too.”

“Really?” Casey squeaked.

“It’s either that or go home and unpack, and I don’t really feel like it.”

“Oh…kay. Um…I’ll get dressed…”

Casey headed down the hallway to his bedroom at a quick trot.

Sasha got up from his chair and began idly collecting the few bits of detritus on the table, leaving the grocery receipt with its scribbled information lying there just where Zeke could have seized it and crumpled it --- or even better, burned it.

“That’s generous of you,” Sasha remarked

Zeke tended to agree, since it was still less than a week since the botched car-theft slash kidnapping and he had already made more than one sacrifice. But he snorted in return, “Hardly,” and added, only because Casey wasn’t there to hear it: “Since you had the brilliant idea of going to visit the guy…I’ve gotta go and keep an eye on him.”

“What did you want me to do?” Sasha lowered his tone to a bare minimum, huddling down slightly to keep this between them. Sasha in a stoop was slightly ridiculous, with his height. “Casey can pick his own friends.”

“In principle, sure. But this situation is different.”

With a wistful smile, Sasha echoed, “In principle.”

“Fine,” Zeke snarled. “He can pick his own friends but not Thomas.”

“Zeke,” sighed Sasha. “The man’s very sick. I hardly think he’s going to make a move on Casey.”

Ah, but Zeke was much more concerned about Casey making a move on Thomas but he didn’t dare say so, not when everyone was being so cordial to everyone else and their lives were finally approaching something resembling stability.

Three days ago, he had moved out. It had taken little time to gather his clothing and books --- the only things he needed to bring. But there had been the print Roy had sent him, which caused him no small amount of anxiety. He could have left it safely stashed in the storage room, and Casey would never find it --- except what if he did? What if he suddenly had a hankering for Trivial Pursuit, or a burning desire to go through Zeke’s collection of trashy novels? In the end, Zeke decided that the print had to come with him to Stokely’s.

Stokely had everything he really needed: a bed, a kitchen, should he ever decide he felt like cooking. The one thing he’d been missing was a computer; he’d gone out and purchased a new one the other day. It had taken a little less than four hours from the moment he’d decided he needed one, to getting it set up. One trip to the nearest Circuit City and some credit card abuse were all it took. Thankfully, Stokely already had a DSL, so setting up his internet connection had been a simple and speedy business.

Realizing that he no longer lived where he lived had been a lot more…well, a lot more emotionally surprising than he’d anticipated. His first night at Stokely’s — his place, now — he’d barely slept. He’d refused to lie there crying in the dark like some homesick loser, even if he’d come pretty fucking close to it.

They all took the Mustang, and because they were running a bit late they didn’t have time to get a decent coffee. Zeke and Sasha had to resort to some slop from the nearest gas station which they drank sitting on the front steps of Yves’ building. Or rather, Zeke drank his despite the taste while Sasha took one sip, made a face, and then quietly poured the liquid into the cedar shrub to the right of the steps. “There you go,” he sang.

“Hmm.” Zeke was busy lighting his cigarette.

“How many are you up to now?”

“Huh?”

“How many cigarettes a day?”

Zeke inhaled deeply and exhaled on, “I dunno. At least two packs.”

“Zeke. This is getting serious.”

“It’s an addiction, Sasha. That tends to mean you’re addicted so please…lay off.” He could feel Sasha watching him, and he could feel Sasha’s pity too. “I mean it,” he growled. “Lay off!”

“I’m worried about you, sweetheart.”

Zeke shrugged, anticipating a touch that he didn’t want. “I’m fine.”

“Well…that’s what worries me. You always act fine and you say you’ll be fine…I’m afraid you aren’t really fine at all and we’re just letting you pretend.”

“Or here’s a thought,” Zeke returned with sarcasm so sharp that his mouth tasted acid, “I really am fine and you’re going to make me not fine pretty fucking soon if you don’t stop harping about it.”

In visible surrender, Sasha raised his hands. “I stand corrected.”

Shortly, Casey returned from therapy with reddened, puffy eyes, a fact upon which no one commented. Zeke would have liked to explain to Sasha that there with Casey around there was no room for anyone else to not be fine, but he was sure that Sasha would somehow interpret that as Zeke not being very fine at all. Better to remain stoically quiet and stay out of Sasha’s way, at least for a while. If he didn’t, Sasha would have him in some sort of breakdown before long.

The psychiatric hospital where Thomas had been committed against his willl wasn’t as new, or as welcoming, as Whitby had been. The place was clean, but not bright, efficient and cordial but very institutional. Zeke observed Casey’s unhappy, frightened face as they took in the dingy, not-quite-white floors and walls, and he almost felt sympathetic towards Thomas, who was being watched around the clock and was allowed visitors for only half an hour at a time. Casey insisted on going in by himself, and Zeke was rather relieved.

He and Sasha found their way to a visitors’ lounge. There were a few patients sitting there with guests, each identifiable by their clothing — institutional blue for the patients, not for the visitors. Many of the patients gave evidence of emotional toil.

Zeke sat on a worn couch and tried to watch Full House on the tinny TV set. To him, it was spectacularly unfunny. During a commercial break, one of the patients took an ill shine to an advertisement for Volvo and began to be visibly and audibly agitated. Two nurses, one male, one female, both equally large, rushed in and silenced him with a shot in the arm. They then half-led, half-forced him from the lounge.

“God,” Sasha whispered. He was perched next to Zeke, on the sofa’s arm.

“Yeah.”

“If Casey had been in a place like this...”

“I don’t want to think about it.”

A figure entering the lounge caught Zeke’s eye. He was a tall black man in a reverend’s collar and black clothes, and he bore enough of a resemblance to Thomas that they had to be related. And given his age — he was at least seventy, stooped and slightly frail — he was probably Thomas’ father. The elderly man sat in a folding chair, holding himself apart from everyone else, his posture one of easy, worn dignity. When he met Zeke’s gaze, he nodded to him, then looked away.

He seemed so sad, tired and old and Zeke began to remember what it had been like last August. He remembered how it had felt talking to the doctors, to friends and family and — it struck him how he hadn’t shied away from talking about the aliens up until then. In fact, right up until the moment he had decided to invent that Big Lie for Spadoni, he had been all about the truth. He had never really thought about that until this moment even though the memory had been there for the accessing.

But they had been in Herrington, his inner defender protested. Everyone already knew. Coming here was supposed to have been a new start where the aliens didn’t matter any more, where they weren’t those kids who made their teachers disappear —

He was nudged by Sasha; Casey was coming towards them, looking a bit miserable but not quite crying. Zeke was hopeful that he wanted to go now --- but Casey suddenly changed direction, squaring his shoulders and going over to the man who had to be Thomas’ father.

“He doesn’t seem...that bad,” Casey said, his voice mostly audible. They sounded like two people who had already introduced themselves. Of course, they would have encountered each other in Thomas’ room before this.

“He is that bad,” replied Thomas’ father, neither hostile nor friendly. He had a strong, Caribbean-type accent, different from Thomas whose accent was a mixture of islands both north and south — Barbados by way of England. “Tell me again...how do you know my son?”

“Just from talking to him. He...hung around where I live.”

Thomas’ father nodded.

“What’s...” Casey’s voice trailed away into a whisper.

The voice of Thomas’ father was trained to fill a church; it easily carried throughout the room without giving the impression that he had even raised it. “They say he may be released in a few weeks, if he responds to medication. He will have to come home to live with me and his mother.”

“To...”

“To Barbados, yes.”

Casey said something else that Zeke couldn’t manage to overhear.

The elderly man shook his head. “Not at all. What you must understand is my son has had this affliction his entire life. He is well when he takes his medication...and he was well for quite some time. He must have stopped...I don’t know when.”

“Do you — do you know why?”

“No. I truly thought...but, I remember he told me once, when he was just a teenager that...that the only time he felt good was when he was sick.” With that, Thomas’ father massaged his forehead and uttered a small moan. “I am sure that I have done something, committed some sin that caused God to visit this affliction upon him…”

As Zeke and Sasha watched, Casey put out a tentative hand, gently touching the man’s shoulder, and said, “If he wasn’t sick I...I wouldn’t have met him...and I’m glad I met him.”

The other man lifted his head and studied Casey. He got slowly to his feet. More formally he said, “I appreciate that, young man…Casey. Now…I think I will go back in.”

As the reverend walked away, his shoes leaving soft reports on the institutional tiles, Casey negotiated a straight line across the lounge, across the sightlines of all who were struggling to be entertained by Full House, to Zeke and Sasha. Without a word, he was folded into a hug from Sasha, just for a handful of seconds and then he had bounced back a few feet, shifting his weight in that twitchy way that was becoming more and increasingly a fixture of his character.

On further silent agreement, they all made haste to the elevator, that portal to a world where people were allowed and assumed to present a front of mental stability...regardless of what they might actually be suffering or struggling through.

Sasha ventured, “That was a nice thing you did, kitten.”

“I just wanted him to know,” Casey said. His voice was flat and hollow. “I should have told him Thomas helped me.”

“How did he help you?” Zeke wanted to know, not bothering to hide his annoyance at the premise. “Well?” he insisted. “How did Thomas help you?”

“Zeke,” Sasha attempted to intervene.

“No, I want to know…how did this guy help?” Zeke wasn’t in any position to seek Casey’s arm --- or truly, to involve them in any other gratuitous touching, not these days. But he really needed to know what a sick stranger could have done for Casey that Zeke hadn’t been able to, and he was forced to emphasize his question with his voice alone. It came out slightly strident.

“He said things that were true.”

“Like what?”

“Zeke,” Sasha said again, very nearly making his name into two syllables, never an easy accomplishment.

Zeke ignored him, which wasn’t easy either. “Like what, Casey?”

“Like…” In profile, Casey’s chin rose to an angle that said he was ready to give as good as he got. “…the more you wanted me to not talk about the aliens the more important it was that I talk about them.”

“Oh, spare me…” Zeke growled, just before the elevator beeped, announcing its arrival on the fourth floor. He stepped into it, fully expecting the other two to be behind him. They were not going to have a conversation about aliens from outer space in a psychiatric hospital. It was just not going to happen.

No one spoke until they had exited the hospital and walked to the Mustang; Casey and Sasha stood on one side, waiting for Zeke to unlock the door but Zeke had other priorities. He had tipped out a cigarette and had it poised near his mouth, fishing with his other hand for his lighter, when Casey spoke as though there had been no break, no pause at all.

“He was actually willing to talk about them.” Casey stared him down across the hood of the Mustang. “And…he was kind of friendly but scary at the same time. I thought maybe he…maybe he was one of them but he didn’t want to hurt me. He said they would never…hurt me.”

Zeke covered a sudden aching throat and trembling hand by smoking with great intensity. “Hah,” he returned, exhaling. “But he did.”

“No, he didn’t.”

Zeke hated that he was stuck on the other side of the car where he couldn’t get an ideal view of Casey. “How do you figure that?”

“He taught me --- “

“Nearly got you arrested.”

“--- I drove on the highway, I had to deal with the police and --- and stuff --- "

“Oh, so if I were to blindfold you and leave you in a bar full of Hell’s Angels or something, I would be helping you?

Zeke saw Sasha covering a sudden smile. He threw down his half-smoked cig and dug out his keys.

In his view, sick was sick. Thomas was not some guardian angel who had come to Seattle on a mission to help Casey. Fuck...before long Casey would have him as some tragic, travelling alien, moving from place to place helping humankind to understand each other. Zeke had seen a TV show like that once, and if he had managed to catch the drift of that broadcast inanity while flipping between football and baseball coverage, Casey had to have seen it. It certainly seemed that he had adopted it into his weird, half-cheesy and half-cynical philosophy of life on Earth.

Zeke dropped Casey and Sasha off at the apartment and continued on to Stokely’s place --- his and Stokely’s, actually. He wasn’t sure when, or if, he would ever get used to thinking that phrase.

Stokely was at work, which was a bit of a relief because Zeke didn’t feel much like socializing. He sat down at his new computer with a half a pack of smokes and started a new email to Chloe.

 

 

 

 

Sent: January 6, 2002. 04:32 .p.m.

Re: Ravings.

we just got back from visiting that gy thomas. you knw the one who Casey told me he fucked around with it. it’s too much to ask to be kind and patient and understnding about this, sometimes I really just want to grab Casey and shake him or worse actually. i have all these thoughts about hitting him but I swear I’m not that kind of guy, i’m not. i mean, it isn’t like he’s the only one who pisses me off. i think about punching people all the time and you knw what? i don’t ever want to hurt Casey but i just dont get why he and other people actually, why they dont hear and see themselves, why they dont understand what they are doing.

i’m trying so hard to be the good guy and what does he do? he scares me to death by running away sometimes and then later i find out that not only did he run away, he was messing around with this strange dude he ran into in a coffee shop, and then, oh yeah, he wasn’t just making me jealous, he was actually giving me something to be jealous about!!! he tells me he fucks this guy and then he has the nerve to go and stage a near-suicide when i react like any guy would and get pissed at him. and then it turns out he didn’t fuck hm after all he just said he did to get me going. and it gets better, he disappears one morning on his way to therapy and it turns out he and thomas went on a little bonnie and clyde but he says HE SAYS thomas isn’t bad, thomas isn’t scary, he didnt hurt me and don’t send the poor man to jail.

so then what? i do my hero routine, i act all understanding and even volunteer to go to the hospital to visit this guy and then he hits me with the news that thomas HELPED him. he has to know that saying that to me is like sticking me with a fucking knife but still he says it. he’s such a little shit.

i don’t understand why i’m still here. i never would put up with this from anyone else. i haven’t put up with it with anyone else in fact, my track record is straight out proof. i’ve tried harder with him than i ever have in my entire life. when i was angry or frustratrated or impatient i choked it down and i feel like i have a gut full of it. sasha told me i was patient once and it’s like that guy is just gone. i used to be able to think through things, i used to be able to THINK.

stokely just came in and ragged on me for smoking in the apartment. this is another thing. yeah, sasha didn’t let me smoke in that apartment either but i had a roof to go to. how is it that Casey announces he’s going to move out and i end up volunteering to do it? i don’t like this set up. FUCKFUCKFUCKFUCKINGMOTHERFUCKERFUCK

 

Received: January 7, 2002. 10:10 .a.m.

Re: Re: Ravings.

First of all, the only thing more disgusting than smoking is the stuff that gets left behind in the ashtray. I don’t blame Stokely and you had better start figuring out how to make amends, little brother.

I understand why you feel hurt. It has to hurt, hearing Casey say that this man “helped” him when you’ve been there all along and you never took Casey on a crime spree.

I know you wanna be the guy that Casey relies on, that he says his prayers to every night. He probably did too, at some point, am I right? He depended on you completely, I’ll bet. I think I remember you hinting at something like that. That’s heady stuff, alright. The problem is, he’s changed. He’s got friends and acquaintances other than you. Is it not possible that there is something he can learn from all of them? Yeah, I know that’s not exactly what’s bothering you, but the weird thing is, sometimes it’s easier to tell things to strangers. Sometimes strangers can see more too, because they’re not involved, because they don’t care like you do. I’m not just making this up, I’ve had it happen to me.

That probably isn’t what you want to hear, but I figure there are true things and there are nice things and never the twain shall meet. I also figure you’re more interested in the true things. You wouldn’t have pulled that stunt with Casey’s ex if you weren’t. And by the way, I think this is something you and Jacob have in common. I think that’s why he’s a lawyer. He likes to take complex situations and boil them down to an official version.

He didn’t put me up to that, by the way. He has asked about you a few times. For some reason, he thinks I know how you’re doing.

Oh, yeah, here’s the other thing I wanted to say. You’ve gotta stop assuming you can use your head to get you out of this situation. I know you know this already but you keep talking about how you can’t be logical and you can’t seem to think clearly --- this is love, little brother. It’s not a rational thing, I don’t know why you think it is. You want to use logic on it and it’s just laughing in your face. I’m not saying stop trying to be a rational person, because that’s like way cool. Just accept that some things don’t work that way, okay?

Now you may be pissed off and never want to talk to me again. I hope that’s not the case but I’m prepared for it. I have this way of being too blunt and alienating people, in case you didn’t know that.

 

Sent: January 10, 2002. 01:30 a.m.

Re: Re: Ravings.

im not pissed at you, even if you did compare me to Jacob. It dosn’t bother me, since i know that you’re completely dead wrong about that.

i’m much calmer about the whole thomas situation, mainly because he’s gone now. Casey went to visit him again and i even went, yeah, i couldn’t help myself. this time i went right in the room with him. i wanted to see them interact but the guy was in a really bad way. depressed. it was like Casey used to be but worse maybe. i actually felt a little sorry for him. he can’t help being sick, he lost the genetic lottery there is all. he was totally withdrawn and i think it was a big wake-up call for Casey. the only thing he said to Casey was that he didn’t want him there. he told him to get out, that he didn’t belong there. and Casey left and I got to comfort him. thomas is gone now, back to barbados with his father. i called the hospital yesterday and they said he had been discharged into his father’s care. poor guy.

i hear what you’re saying about love being irrational. believe me, i know. i just think it’s important not to give up on trying to be rational. If i gave up, there would be nothing to keep me in check, and i need to be in check. i have violence in me. i’m not proud of it but i do. i’ve been thinking about talking to someone about it actually.

and since when am i your little brother?

 

 

 

 

It was in between that happy lull when the hamburgers had disappeared and they were picking in sated fashion at the french fries, when Casey said, “Zeke.”

This was portentous. Not Hey, I’m just getting your attention or even I want to tell you something quasi-important but Something is coming you’re not going to like and I’m scared but I’m still saying it.

And this at the tail end of one of those days that Zeke had used to fantasize about, a day when spent with Casey, just wandering here and there. Of course, Casey had to do therapy first, and then he’d had a brief appointment with Chakri to review how he was doing with his meds and to renew prescriptions. Zeke had been happy to go along and wait outside, both times, and after that they had gone to a bookstore and a music store, just to browse --- practice, Casey had said. He’d asked Zeke to be nearby but not to touch him. Zeke had been able to read in the tight tension of Casey’s body, the way he clenched himself into the smallest space possible, that he was on the defensive every second, but he’d come through it. Not beautifully, but with pure determination, the way Casey did most things.

To reward him --- well, in part to reward him and in part because Zeke had been hungry, he’d taken Casey to the Bayview for a late lunch. Here Casey had been slightly more at ease. At ease about being in public, at least. At ease about being in Zeke’s company? Not exactly, no.

Zeke couldn’t forget that not a week ago he’d done...what he’d done. Fucking hell, he was a prick of gargantuan proportions and he could feel that fact between them know, in the slight twitch that Casey had every time Zeke got a little too near, in Casey’s sudden, blustering anger about things. Just when he managed to convince himself that it wasn’t him Casey was angry at, that it was a massive storm system that he just happened to be in the way of....

Zeke made himself respond. “Yeah?”

“Um,” Casey said, blinking a bit too hard. “Yves and I were talking...”

That was a given, but Zeke just said, “Yes.”

”I want to...to try some things.”

”Like what?”

Casey stared at him as though trying to glean more than what he had put into the words themselves, and getting nowhere because Zeke had been absolutely neutral.

”It’s okay, Case. Like what?”

“Remember how Stokes said I could work downstairs...stocking shelves and stuff?”

As casually as he could, Zeke put his hands under the table. He clenched them hard, unwound them, then put them back where Casey could see them.

”I think I’d like to try that,” Casey blurted. “Just for a few hours a week.”

Zeke shrugged. “You don’t need my permission.”

Blue could be a very hard colour, Zeke was learning.

”Okay then,” Casey said. “And I’m going to take a course too.”

Suddenly, Zeke felt his heart pounding like everything was getting away from him. He couldn’t get his hands on it, or it was all slippery, amorphous, nothing solid for him to grasp. “Have you picked something?”

“Yeah. A course that doesn’t have an attendance policy.”

Zeke managed to smile. “Good idea.”

”I don’t think I need my transcripts if I’m just going to register part-time. I’ll just go tomorrow --- “

“I’ll go with you.”

Zeke was bludgeoned by the instantaneous refusal --- “I don’t want you to” --- a refusal spoken with an almost blustering finality, a defiance that said there would be no right of appeal. He took some time to recover, picking at his plate.

“Yves thinks...” Casey continued. “Will you...maybe come to therapy with me tomorrow?”

Zeke ate a few fries before asking, “What’s it about?”

“You don’t want to.”

“I'd like a little advance warning is all. I’d rather not be blind-sided.”

Casey reached and took one of Zeke’s fries, dipped it in the blob of ketchup remaining on his plate. Holding the bloodied thing, he said, “It’s not about the aliens.”

“Un-huh.”

“Yves thinks it would be helpful if we just kinda...just talked about everything that’s happened.”

“Why?”

Casey had let go of the fry and licked his fingers. Zeke’s balls began to tighten as he stared at a stained red mouth. He shifted on the vinyl seat, looking at the table. “Because,” Casey said, “It has a lot to do with what happens now.”

“I don’t know.”

“Zeke.” Casey sounded weary. “You promised.”

Shit. Fuck. Lately, he’d discovered a few things about Casey that he hadn’t realized. Such as Casey remembered every fucking thing Zeke had ever said. “Yeah, okay,” Zeke admitted. “I promised.” He grabbed at the handwritten check that was lying face-down on the table and said, “Let’s go.”

Casey acceded without a word, trailing after him to the cash, shadowing him out of the diner. Without thinking, Zeke stepped up to the curb, watching for his opportunity to cross the street, thinking he was on his way home.

He remembered.

Turning to look at Casey, he said, “I guess I’ll go home now.”

Casey was giving equal time to Zeke and the sidewalk. “You could…come keep me company,” he suggested.

Zeke was about to say yes when it occurred to him that he didn’t know if Casey really wanted his company, or just some company, and there was a flash fire of anger in him because it had been Casey, after all, who wanted them to spend some time apart, and they’d just been together the entire day and Zeke had a place of his own to go to, to be apart just like Casey wanted and asked for and got, because he always got what he wanted one way or another.

“No,” Zeke blurted. “Thanks. Think I’ll go home.” He was astonished to see that Casey actually had the nerve to look sad. He added, “I’ll meet you at Yves’ tomorrow morning, okay?”

Casey nodded; whispered, “Kay.”

“See you.”

Zeke set for the place, a couple of blocks away, where he had parked. He didn’t watch to see if Casey made it home okay --- it was only across the fucking street, after all.

When he got to Stokely’s --- home, fucking home, he went into his room, declining the offer of veggie stew. Not surprisingly, the ashtray he had left next to his computer monitor was gone.

He typed and sent:

Casey wants me to come with him to therapty. i should tell you, we tried this before and it was a disaster. i don’t disagree that Yves has vhelped Casey but that’s a credit to Casey’s own desire and motivation to be helped. i think the bottom line is you get what you put into it. these doctors or counsellors or whatever important letters they happened to put on their shingle, they’re not magic. i think the magic is all in listening and if a person has nothing to say to them then there isn’t much point.

i will go, though, because i promised, Casey. i just don’t think it’ll serve any purpose.

also. Casey is going to register for a course tomorrow. i really thought he would want meto come with hm but he didn't.

And then he went outside and sat on the front steps of the building, smoking. He smoked half a pack before he went in.

 

 

 

 

Received: January 11, 2002. 08:54 a.m.

RE: what do you think about therapy?

Zeke -- it’s not my impression that you have nothing to say.

 

January 11, 2002. 05:14 p.m.

RE:RE: what do you think about therapy?

nothing to say to HER.

 

January 11, 2002. 05:16 p.m.

RE:RE:RE: what do you think about therapy?

You could explain to her why she can’t help you.

 

January 11, 2002. 05: 20 p.m.

RE:RE:RE:RE: what do you think about therapy?

except I promised Casey that I would.

 

January 11, 2002. 05:30 p.m.

RE:RE:RE:RE:RE: what do you think about therapy?

Stop being a scaredy-boy.

 

January 11, 2002. 05:33 p.m.

RE:RE:RE:RE:RE:RE: what do you think about therapy?

im not. i just don't see what good this will do when Casey and I are already hanging by a thread.

 

January 11, 2002. 05:37 p.m.

RE:RE:RE:RE:RE:RE:RE: what do you think about therapy?

Then you had better give Casey what he wants. Beside, you already told me you have complete insight into yourself, right? So nothing she can do will surprise you.

 

January 11, 2002. 05:39 p.m.

RE:RE:RE:RE:RE:RE:RE:RE:RE what do you think about therapy?

i love you. marry me?

 

January 11, 2002. 05:41 p.m.

RE: that’s enough RE’s don’t you think?

Yuck!

 

January 11, 2002. 05:42 p.m.

RE: Never enough RE’s

you know that brother-sister stuff doesn’t really apply.

 

January 11, 2002. 05:43 p.m.

RE:RE: Never enough RE’s

It does so. Anyway...hello, GAY?

 

January 11, 2002. 05:44 p.m.

RE:RE:RE: Never enough RE’s

Bisexual.

 

January 11, 2002. 05:46 p.m.

RE:RE:RE:RE: Never enough RE’s

I’ve heard that bisexuals are pussies who can’t commit.

 

January 11, 2002. 05:48 p.m.

RE:RE:RE:RE:RE: Never enough RE’s

not true. it’s a valid identity.

 

January 11, 2002. 06:15 p.m.

RE:RE:RE:RE:RE:RE: Never enough RE’s

You aren’t serious are you? About being attracted to me?

 

January 11, 2002. 06:37 p.m.

RE:RE:RE:RE:RE:RE:RE: Never enough RE’s

not really. but kinda. i like how you put things. i wish Casey was more like that.

 

January 11, 2002. 06:40 p.m.

RE:RE:RE:RE:RE:RE:RE:RE: Never enough RE’s

That’s a huge compliment. You do realize, don’t you, that you and I are way too much alike? And you’re basically saying you wish Casey was more like you, Professor Higgins.

 

January 11, 2002. 06:41 p.m.

RE:RE:RE:RE:RE:RE:RE:RE:RE: Never enough RE’s

Who?

 

 

 

 

Dr. Yves folded her hands on top of her desk. “Thank you for coming, Zeke."

"You don't have to thank me," he retorted. "We did this drill the last time."

"Still...I know this isn’t easy for you.”

“It’s fine,” he grunted. “No problem.”

Sitting in the chair across from Zeke --- planted in it really, as though the chair was his sole defense against Zeke’s physical presence, as though Zeke was something he had to be defended against, Casey emitted a non-communicative noise. Somehow, it morphed belatedly into a statement: “You hate coming here.”

“I don’t hate it. I’m not terribly comfortable, but I did say I’d do whatever it took.”

“Whatever it took?” Yves prompted.

“To help Casey.”

"Does it always have to be about helping Casey?"

"What else would it be about?"

"It could be about helping you, maybe."

Zeke realized that he was perched on the edge of the couch, sitting up very straight with his feet firm and flat under him. He had an image of himself as a man ready to flee, and he didn’t like it. He forced himself to settle back a bit, to be a more relaxed representation --- guy talking to older woman, guy totally unthreatened by the fact that older woman happens to be a doctor. "That's not why I'm here."

"Why are you here?"

“Casey didn’t tell you?” Zeke wondered, delivering it more to Casey than to Yves.

“I said you agreed to come back,” Casey muttered. “That’s all."

"And I'm glad you did," Yves chimed in.

“Huh." Zeke decided to shrug that off. “Well, I made a promise.”

“Promise?”

“That I would do whatever it took,” he repeated patiently.

“When was that, Zeke?”

“It was over Christmas…you know, when I figured out that Casey and I...things weren’t going too well and I suggested that we abstain from sex. He didn’t take it very well.”

“Understatement,” Casey breathed.

“Yeah.”

“Tell me about it,” Yves invited.

“I can’t believe he didn’t already.”

“Zeke,” she said gently. “You aren’t here to fill in the blanks in a chronology. I’d like to hear about some of these important occasions from your perspective. I’d like to hear how you felt — or feel.”

He folded his arms over his chest. A defensive gesture and there was nothing he could do now about the fact that she had seen it. “The point is, I said I would come here if it helped Casey, so he and I can be together again.”

“Okay.”

“I want us to be together again…”

“Yes.”

“…but I’m not irrational about it. I can see we need to take a break.” Yves just raised her eyebrows, and busily recorded something. Zeke watched her do it for a moment, then he said, “Maybe you didn’t know that it was my idea that we stop having sex, but it was.”

“I did know that. Both you and Casey have made that very clear.”

“Oh.”

Casey spoke up. His voice was small but clear. “No one’s making you out as the bad guy, Zeke.”

Zeke laughed. “That's good!” Only after he’d said it did he realize how he sounded, and now there would be more for her to write down about him: Boyfriend is obviously feeling guilty and afraid that he is in the wrong.

Yves asked, “Is there some reason why you’d expect me to treat you like a bad guy, Zeke?”

Rather than reply immediately, Zeke looked to Casey, who was rocking in place, just slightly. Zeke saw too many things there, sad and knowing things, angry things. He could see nothing of the trust that he had once relied on.

“Dr. Yves,” he confessed, breaking off his fruitless search of Casey’s eyes and closing his own. “I’ve done terrible things.”

“Do you want to tell me about it?”

“Not really.”

“Are you sure?”

“Really sure.”

“Can you give me a hint?”

He shook his head but then, funny thing, he answered, contradicting himself as he said, “You saw how I didn’t want to let Casey move out.”

“Yes.”

“Um...it was like...a lot more of the same.” He opened his eyes, meeting hers full on. He admitted the truth: “I was a monster.”

“We agreed we’re even, though,” Casey said. Zeke snapped a look in his direction, saw him trying for a smile, and doing a poor job of it. “Remember?”

“Yeah, I remember, but...” Zeke finally tore himself away. To Yves he said, “I can’t forget it. I’m afraid Casey can’t either. I can see him wondering if it will happen again...”

“It won’t,” Casey said.

“You don’t know that.”

“I do know that.” Casey rocked, just once like he couldn’t quite keep still, and shivered. “Zeke...you’re being so good...so kind and...and patient.” And yet his eyes contradicted his words completely. They spoke of discomfort and fear, and he declared suddenly, as though trying to cast a spell of belief upon himself, “This will pass. It will, it...and then it’ll be like before — “

”Casey,” Yves said.

Just like that, Casey stopped, as though her voice had the power to summon him back. Zeke ached to see it, to know that she was now his number one ally.

“I mean,” Casey mumbled. “Maybe...maybe we’ll be together.” He sucked in air, seemingly lost in his own twelve-ring circus, his mind jumping and twirling and falling down for display with Zeke merely the audience. The only thing Zeke could think of doing was returning to his conversation with Yves, letting Casey have a moment with himself to get hold of things.

“Dr. Yves,” Zeke said. “I want to ask you something.”

“Of course, Zeke.”

“If I love someone...why would I hurt them?”

Dr. Yves sat back a little, perhaps settling in for a little fireside philosophy. “I’m sure it’s no secret to you that love and hate are almost the same thing.”

“I’m not talking about hate. I’m talking about love that — that makes me feel sick. Like, totally irrational, maybe violent...Is that the nature of love or is that my nature?”

“Nature is a loaded term, as I’m sure you know.”

“But is it me? Or is this what love is about?”

Dr. Yves sighed, shaking her head. “You’re asking the billion dollar question, Zeke. People write book after book...but no one’s got love pinned down just yet.”

“I think,” Zeke professed, “that love is a misnomer. There’s this thing that gets created between two people and it’s totally different every time. There is no such thing as love...it’s just a convenient label for this...this possibility.”

Dr. Yves considered him for several seconds, then said, “I think there’s a lot of truth in that, Zeke. But how does that help you to understand your relationship with Casey?”

“Well, maybe it means that what some people call normal isn’t normal for us.”

She cocked her head. “Say more about that.”

“I mean...what if for us there’s always some danger?”

“Some people have very satisfying, fulfilling relationships without it being dangerous.”

“But Casey and I aren’t some people. We’re us.”

“Is that what you want?”

“I want to not be afraid of it. Maybe then I wouldn’t be such a jerk.”

Yves moved her head around like she was thinking hard and using the motion to dislodge assumptions. Then she said, “Why do you think your relationship with Casey has to be dangerous?”

“I don’t know that it does. I was just wondering.”

“Ah. So it feels dangerous and you aren’t sure if it should be that way...”

“Yes.”

“What is it about it that scares you?”

“What’s the point of that?”

“Just humour me.”

“Okay, okay...” Zeke cast a glance at Casey, who was much calmer, sitting very poised and still. Engrossed in the conversation, perhaps. Zeke wished he could go over put his hand on Casey’s because he had a feeling that Casey was agreeing with him at this moment. “Let’s see. I’m afraid of him not loving me. Of him touching — or being touched by someone else. Actually, I worry about it constantly even though I know that technically we’re not together and he can date whoever.”

“And so can you,” Yves reminded him.

“Yeah, sure. Anyway, I feel like I’ll go nuts if someone else touches him.”

“That’s not very likely,” Casey put in, breaking his stillness. “I can’t even take Sasha’s hugs right now.”

“That won’t always be the case,” Yves reassured him. “Meanwhile, Zeke is having these feelings, and I think it’s good to talk about them. Zeke?”

“Yeah.”

“So, if someone touches Casey you’d ‘go nuts’. Can you tell me what that means?”

“I’d be angry.”

“At who?”

“Casey and the guy, whoever he is.”

“What would you be thinking?”

“Hmm?”

“You say you’d be angry...about what?”

“Isn’t it obvious?”

“Not exactly.”

“Casey belongs to me.”

“Don’t belong to you,” Casey muttered.

“I know that,” Zeke replied. “I’m saying how I would feel though.”

“And that’s good,” affirmed Yves. “It’s all right, Casey. We’re just talking through things.”

Casey gave a shaky nod. He seemed to be shrinking now, growing smaller in his spot like he thought someone was going to sell him to Zeke and he needed to make a getaway. Zeke felt distinctly annoyed by it. He was just trying to be honest about things --- a skill that Casey had not really developed in his almost-twenty years.

“All right. You said you feel like Casey belongs to you. Why does that lead to anger?”

“Huh?”

“What is it about your possessive feelings — “

”Look,” Zeke interrupted. “I know what this is about. You lead me to say that I’m afraid of losing Casey and that the reason I’m afraid is that I’ve been left before. Possession is my answer to that fear of being abandoned again. If I own him then presumably I don’t have to share...if I don’t want to. I’m quite aware that no one can own anyone else and that those possessive feelings are counterproductive. I know that if I try to own him, I’ll lose him.”

Dr. Yves’ mouth quirked. “You know many things, Zeke.”

“Yes. I do.”

“So why can’t you change them?”

Zeke waved his hand, sketching a frustrated design in the air. “Who says I want to?”

Yves frowned. “Just minutes ago you were very concerned about your behaviour to Casey. You said you’d been a jerk and you didn’t want it to happen again.”

“That’s right.”

“Do you not see a contradiction?”

“Actually, I don’t. I want Casey to belong to me and I never want to hurt him again.”

“And…you think that’s possible?”

“I guess that’s my question.”

“It sounds like you think you have the answer.”

“Dr. Yves.” Zeke leaned towards her, compressing all his thinking about this subject into his voice and forward motion. He was highly conscious of Casey next to him, Casey breathing, himself breathing Casey. “You said yourself that no one knows just what love is...so how about we just have to carve it out for ourselves? I think that maybe it’s too late for me to love him any other way than the way I do. All I can do is figure out how to make it work.”

“That’s...an interesting argument, to say the least.”

“I’ve got nothing but time.”

From several feet away he could see Casey trembling, and he was very careful not to look or even hint that he might touch him if he could. He knew if this was ever to work, he had to wait for Casey to come to him, whatever the cost of waiting. He also knew that he was flying in the face of the entire psychiatric perspective.

“Zeke...” Yves said. “The thing is, you have to remember that it isn’t only up to you.”

“I know.” His jaw tightened, barely restraining his howl of protest at the knowledge. “I know.”

“Have you considered the possibility that Casey does not belong to you, that your relationship might even be over? That he might see someone else...have a relationship with somebody else?”

No. His mind screamed it, he would not speak it, even to speak it was betray things that he believed in his heart...and suddenly his rhythm section was rehearsing with unprecedented volume and intensity. “Why?” he asked. “Is that why I’m here? So I can be told, with you here as a buffer?”

“No, Zeke, no.” Dr. Yves lifted her hands, opening them in a gesture of reconciliation. “That’s not why you’re here. I’m merely asking you to consider it.”

“I don’t want to consider it,” Zeke said, and heard the tremor in his voice. She probably did too, as would Casey.

“No one ever does, but it’s important to know that you can’t make someone love you no matter how much you want them to.”

Zeke examined the doctor’s face, then performed a similar investigation upon Casey. He couldn’t catch Casey’s eyes; he was gazing steadfastly at his favourite spot on the carpet and Zeke was not annoyed anymore. He’d passed from annoyance to the fullness of anger.

“I know that you love me, Casey,” he said. He couldn’t not say it.

Casey’s eyes came back from the void. “I don’t know,” he said.

“I do.”

“I don’t know if I can love anyone,” Casey squeaked.

Zeke snorted. “Oh.” He was being dismissive, he supposed, but he knew that was just crap.

Casey gave him a sharp glance, his mouth moving but making no sound. His eyes had gone to black as they often did, filling with an anger as complete, and more wild than Zeke’s could ever be.

“Zeke,” Yves intervened. “Casey is trying to say something to you.”

“Yeah. Okay.”

“I’m not being a fucking drama queen, Zeke!” Casey said. His voice wavered, and he launched himself up, going to a corner on the other side of the room. Zeke waited for Yves to say something more but she didn’t. At length, Casey declared from his corner, “I really don’t know what I feel!”

Zeke sighed, “I think you’re pissed and that’s all you can feel right now…and you have every right to be, by the way.”

“You don’t deserve it,” Casey growled. “You — Sasha — everyone — “

“You just have a lot of it — really a lot.” Zeke tried for a smile; it made no impression since Casey’s back was to him. He continued carefully. “Maybe...part of the problem is that Roy isn’t available for you to vent at — “

”I’m not mad at Roy.”

After all this time, they were right where they had started. “I don’t believe that.”

“I don’t even think about him.”

“Okay, maybe that’s the fucking problem!” Zeke exploded.

Both Casey and Yves started at Zeke’s vehemence; Casey, quite visibly from several feet away.

“Excuse me — but why don’t you just for once think about Roy? Think about what he did, all the big things and the little things, make a fucking list, Casey! Maybe then you’ll figure out why you’re so angry!”

“I had it out with him!” Casey argued, taking a couple of agitated steps towards Zeke. His face was dead white decorated with splotches of pink. “Remember? I trashed the phone, I screamed at him!”

“That was just a good start.”

Casey did not come any closer; he stood there and actually stomped his feet, making no sound on the plush carpet. “I told him to get out of my life and he did! I’m done with him, I don’t want to think about him anymore!”

“That’s too bad, Casey, because he’s still all over you.”

Casey started to retort, and stopped. He shook his head and insisted, “I’m not mad at him.”

“Why don’t you give it a try?”

“I can’t.”

“Why the fuck not?”

“I just can’t.”

Zeke pounded his fists on the leather couch, for lack of anything else to pound. “He fucking tore you apart, Ca — “

“He hasn’t done anything that you haven’t done!”

Just then, Zeke knew what it was like to be struck dead with a word — well, a sentence in this case, but he realized that he was on his feet, had been for some time and now he was staring across the room at Casey. Just for a moment everything in him failed and he was utterly helpless, frozen, unable to move or speak — and then, of course, his defenses kicked in.

“Fuck you,” he snarled. “Just — fuck you.” He watched, waiting for Casey to back down like always, to start scrabbling for forgiveness. It didn’t happen, and he turned to Yves. “Is this what you were after?”

“Maybe,” she returned.

“Maybe, nothing. This was a fucking ambush.”

“What I am after — what Casey is after, Zeke, is an honest conversation.”

“There’s nothing about this that’s — this is bull-fucking-shit! It’s not the truth, it’s just crazy shit coming out of both of us.”

“Zeke. This isn’t a court of law. We seek emotional truths here. We’re not interested in who did what to who, we’re interested in getting to the truth of things between you and Casey. Leave Roy to his own emotional quest now. He isn’t your concern, and Casey’s feelings about Roy aren’t your concern. The only things you should be trying to understand are your own feelings because those are the only things you can control.”

He listened to her speech --- sure, he could listen, and he could respond too. He was fucking ready the minute she was finished, shooting back, “If my feelings are the only thing I can control, then I’m in control of nothing. I’ve just been telling you how I can’t — “

”Yes. Exactly.”

And now, suddenly and absolutely weary of this conversation, Zeke subsided into his seat once more. He put his head in his hands. “You’re telling me I have control issues? This is not exactly a surprise.”

“I didn’t think it was. I do wonder if you would like to do something about it, though.”

He lifted his head. “Dr. Yves....I would if I could.”

“What do you mean by that?”

“I mean maybe trying to be in control is a futile undertaking...but I don’t have an alternative.”

Dr. Yves considered him and concluded unexpectedly, “All right…”

“All right?” Casey echoed.

“You want to say something, Casey?”

“Yeah…I don’t think it’s all right that Zeke has control issues. I think he should have to deal with them.”

“Perhaps it would be good for him, Casey, but if he’s not willing to, I don’t see what can be gained by continuing to ---”

“That’s not fair.”

Zeke rubbed his eyes and put in, “What’s not fair?”

“I’ve had lots of things I didn’t want to talk about, but you --- “ Casey stabbed a finger at Zeke, then twisted to address Yves. “ – and you made me talk about them. I wasn’t allowed to just say ‘I don’t want to talk about it’.”

Yves raised her eyebrows. “What do you have to say to that, Zeke?”

“I think Casey does a fine job of not talking about things when he doesn’t want to.”

Casey argued, “You were constantly --- “

“Yes, and you’re welcome to do the same thing to me.”

“Okay.” Casey folded his arms. “Why won’t you give up trying to control me?”

“Because I don’t have an alternative.”

“Do you think it works?”

“It did, for a while.”

“But now?”

Zeke shrugged.

“What does that mean?”

“You probably don’t want to know.”

“I asked you if controlling me is working for you.”

“I can’t control you…not these days.”

“Oh…” Casey sighed. “So you think it’s going to change again and we’ll go back to the good old days.”

“Something like that.”

“What if I told you that hearing you say that makes me really pissed off?”

“No surprise.”

“What if I told you that it makes me want to tell you to fuck off and never talk to me again?”

Zeke fought his way through the ache of terror in his gut, clinging to his reason. “Like I said before…you have a lot of anger to get out of your system.”

“Oh, so this is a stage!”

“Honestly? You want me to tell you honestly? I think you’re like a two-year old right now who’s just figuring out who he is and you can’t stand the idea of anyone helping you. You’re all ‘casey do it, casey do it’ because that’s the way you have to be for now and eventually you’ll grow up.”

“Fuck you,” Casey growled.

“You see what I mean?”

“Fuck you!”

“Okay,” Yves said. “I think this has degenerated a little. Zeke, I’m sure you didn’t mean that to sound quite the way it sounded.”

Zeke shrugged. He had meant it exactly the way it sounded, but saying so wasn’t going to get him anywhere now.

“Perhaps we’ll leave the subject of Zeke’s control issues to one side, for today…all right, Casey?”

“But...”

“Yes, Casey?”

“What do we...do?“

”There’s nothing to do,” Zeke put in. “You made it clear you consider me as bad as Roy. There’s nothing to be done about that, is there?”

“No!” Casey almost wailed. “No, no, no...it isn’t...that way!”

“But you said it.”

“I’m just so mad at everything...I can’t think, I just say things. I’m mad at everyone, at everything and I don’t know what to do about it.”

“So...” Zeke held his breath. “You don’t think I’m as bad as Roy.”

“No.”

Zeke sighed.

“...and, yes...um...there’s...there’s lots of things you and Roy have in common.”

“I see.”

“Things I like,” Casey finished, shaking his head. “You’re right…I did like...I still like…the way you t-take charge...you make me feel good. Safe.”

Zeke knew a glimmer of something hopeful.

“But I’m so angry right now...don’t know what to do about it. I feel like I’ll explode if anyone comes near me...or talks to me or even looks at me.”

“You’re not exploding, Case.”

“I am!” Casey moaned. “You just can’t see it.”

“I think...” Zeke gave up on something insightful, and just shrugged. “It’s probably a good thing.”

“Don’t you dare tell me it’s a stage!”

“Okay, then it’s something you just need to get through.”

“Like a fucking stage?”

Zeke had nothing to offer but a grin. “Well. You can’t stay angry forever, can you?”

“It feels like it.”

“Guys,” Yves said. “I’m sorry, but time’s up. I think you’ve done some really good work, though.”

“Yeah, sure,” Zeke muttered. “Casey’s mad at me forever. Thanks. Glad to know.”

“You’ve had an honest conversation, and I know it’s painful but it’s an excellent start.”

Zeke shook his head. “I don’t know that I’m coming back.”

“Do you think it’s wise, Zeke, to leave all these emotions unresolved?”

“Casey’s angry at me. Either he’ll get over it or he won’t, but like you say, there’s nothing I can do about it. And we’re not even a couple, so I really don’t see the point of coming here.”

 

 

 

 

Sent: January 19, 2002. 07:11 p.m.

RE: Disaster.

I went to therpy. it was bad and the upshot is, now i know that Case is mad at me. what an accomplishment. never would have thought that.

 

Received: January 19, 2002. 09:52 p.m.

RE: RE: Disaster.

You should keep going, though. You’ll win brownie points if nothing else.

 

January 19, 2002. 09:53 p.m.

RE: Disaster.

he’s so fucking angry he doesn’t know wht to with himslf. i don’t get why he won’t be angry at roy when roy fucking deserves it. he doesn’t even want to her about roy it makes me crazy!@!!!

 

January 19, 2002. 10:15 p.m.

RE: Roy

Maybe Casey just wants to put Roy behind him. Not a bad idea.

 

January 19, 2002. 10:22 p.m.

RE: Motherfucking Roy, you mean.

sure except he still has all this anger.

 

January 19, 2002. 10:45 p.m.

RE: Okay, Motherfucking Roy.

Does it really matter if the anger is pointed at all the right people? He’d have to go all the way back to his toilet training and the kid who stole his favourite toy in kindergarten and on and on and on. More important to be able to be able to express the anger, I think. That’s what my mother always told me. She said if I was mad at her or someone else I should tell them because if I didn’t it would just make me angry at me.

 

January 20, 2002. 01:36 a.m.

RE: Roy

so i went onlline to the professor’s website, the one teaching casey's course, and there was a picture of him there. he has beady eyes. i’m not making this up. he look like just the kind of guy to fool around with his students, mess them up and leave them. i’m going to be keeping an eye on this creep, that’s for sure

by the way, i have an idea.

 

January 19, 2002. 01:40 a.m.

RE: RE: Roy.

Do tell!

 

 

 

 

It took him only a day or two to find the things that he wanted, but a week or more to fully explore the idea. He discussed it with Chloe; he even went and purchased some books about dealing with anger, read them, and eventually concluded that his plan was sound. It had to be, because it had felt like an epiphany and he hated to think that something like that could lead him off course.

No, he told himself, standing outside Casey’s door at last, a slick night mist and slick sweat on his face. No doubts now. If he hesitated, it would show and the idea would fail. And it couldn’t fail, not when it was a right thing to do.

He knocked, and waited. There was no sound from within. Sasha would be at work, leaving Casey alone, and it was highly unlikely that on this chill, almost-February night Casey would be anywhere but at home.

Zeke knocked again, shifting his weight. He coughed, thought about smoking.

The door opened — and there was silence.

“Hi,” Zeke said.

He was wearing a full set of armour, the kind that boxers would use in training. He’d thought about using football gear and decided it wasn’t enough protection; this way, everything important was protected by extra-thick, durable padding, from head to shins. He’d had a considerable degree of trouble getting it all strapped on without help, and he did feel a lot like the Stay-Puff Marshmallow Man.

Casey laughed a little, helplessly. “What’s this?”

“What does it look like?”

Casey hugged himself. “Like some kind of joke at my expense.”

“It’s no joke…” Zeke glanced down the alleyway, at the sidewalk. “I would like to come in, though.”

Standing back, Casey made room for Zeke to enter. Zeke waddled in and stood there in the entranceway, assessing. Casey was tapping his foot and looking agitated, near crying perhaps, or more likely yelling, and Zeke’s gut ached with sympathy for him. After the January Casey had been having, he deserved a better February, and it didn’t look to be shaping up that way. Everything was different --- but not better.

“So…what is…?” Casey began.

“I want you to hit me,” Zeke said.

Casey stilled, turned around to look at him. “Wh-what?”

“You heard me.”

“You said you want me to hit you.”

“That’s right.”

“I don’t understand,” Casey said. His eyes glistened, and he was probably the only guy Zeke knew who, when offered an opportunity to do some violence, fell to tears. But that was Casey…Zeke should have known that he wouldn’t just go with the program.

“Here’s the deal. I’ve been reading about this thing called Primal Scream therapy and some other stuff and the idea is just to get things out of your system. You want to get things out of your system, don’t you?”

Casey shook his head. “I…I don’t think...”

“No, don’t think, Case, okay? We’re going to go up on the roof and I want you to let loose on me. You won’t hurt me, I promise. I’ve taken steps, so you scream and yell and kick and lay into me with those fists you’ve been carrying around for the past month or so. I want you to do this as a favour to me.”

“You want me to hurt you,” Casey whispered. His eyes seemed almost solid black right then, devoid of any human light.

“Not hurt me. Just — with all my heart — hit me until you don’t want to hit me anymore.”

Casey was barely audible. “I can’t.”

“Yes, you can. I promise you can.”

“But — “ Casey blinked furiously.

“You know me, Case. I’m no one’s punching bag...except today, I’m yours. You can’t let this opportunity pass. Herrington Class of ‘99 is counting on you.”

Casey let loose a giggle, and quickly put his fist over his mouth, belatedly attempting to stifle it.

“Hah!” Zeke pounced. “You’re getting into this concept.” Casey tried a head shake. “Yes, you are. Come on, let’s go up.”

He took a step towards the door to the roof, and was pretty sure he heard the soft shuffle of Casey’s stockinged feet. There were a pair of beat-up sneakers by the door that those feet could slip into. Zeke started up the stairs, not looking back but fairly confident that he was being followed. Sure enough, he heard a tread behind him.

“Why...the roof?” Casey’s voice asked.

“So you can sweat and flail and make lots of noise and hear it echoing from the rooftops.”

“But...someone will hear...”

“So? If anything happens…” Zeke wheezed. “I promise…I’ll deal with it.”

Puffing, Zeke alit on the roof and took several steps to get clear. He turned to find Casey standing right at the top of the stairs, swaying slightly as he stared at Zeke. The night was like any other in Seattle, full of subdued city noise and light pollution --- yet up here it was oddly private. It always had been, in a way.

Zeke spread out his arms, hoping he was managing an adequate impersonation of a bull’s eye. He waited.

Nothing. Casey wasn’t moving.

“What? What’s wrong?”

“I don’t really know how to, um...”

“Does it matter how you hit me? You’re just trying to blow off steam here, not become the world featherweight champion.”

“It feels weird. I don’t punch.”

“I’ve had a few bruises that say otherwise.”

“That was different.”

“Why? Because you weren’t thinking about what you were doing? If you don’t feel like punching me right now — just imagine I’m someone else. Imagine I’m Gabe, or — whoever.” Zeke thought he saw a dark gleam in Casey’s eyes at the mention of Gabe’s name, and yet a minute later he found himself waiting still. He tapped his foot and said deliberately, “Come on.”

“It’s not that easy!” Casey protested.

“Stop being such a fucking pussy.”

“Shut up,” Casey growled.

“Oh, the truth hurts, huh?”

Casey stepped in and delivered a jab at Zeke’s sternum, just one, and one that Zeke couldn’t even feel.

“You call that a punch?”

“What, you want to call me a pussy some more?” Casey shot at him.

“Maybe.”

“You think I hit like a girl?”

“Maybe.”

“That’s the difference between you and me…you care about that macho crap… it just annoys me.”

“Why’d you hit me, then?”

“Because you were sneering at me. Calling me a pussy just because I don’t want to punch you. You look down at me. You think I’m weak.”

Zeke most definitely did not think that, but he remained silent. Casey’s eyes bulged, if such a thing could be distinguished from the norm.

“I’m not weak,” he gritted. “I’m not.”

Zeke shrugged.

“I am not!” Casey yelled, and hit him again. And again...and soon he was peppering Zeke’s chest with blows.

It didn’t exactly hurt or not hurt. There was pressure, and the possibility of bruises. But Casey had gone silent, and it didn’t feel good. It didn’t feel like anything was getting accomplished. It was going wrong and he couldn’t let that happen.

“I take it all back,” he taunted. “You don’t hit like a girl. I know girls who scare me way more than you.”

Casey stopped swinging and stood there like a spitting cat, heaving for breath and glaring.

“Aw, you’re so cute when you try to be dangerous.”

“Shut up.”

“I could just grab hold of you at any second and do what I want with you — “

”Shut up!” Casey screamed.

“What, you don’t think you could stop me, do you? Hell, you don’t even want to stop me. You like getting beat up on, don’t you --- “

That was when Casey really let loose on him. He flailed and kicked and drove his little, hard fists against Zeke’s body, howling things that began as recognizable protest and quickly devolved into things lacking shape or reason. Zeke was gradually driven backwards, retreating across the roof. He tripped and fell, and Casey came after, landing on top of him, sobbing and beating his chest and now screaming, “I hate you! Hate you hate hate you — !”

“Casey.”

“Hate you hate you — “

Zeke tried to get his arms up, and just surrendered and laid there while Casey pounded on him, pelting him with blows and swear words, continuing past the point of exhaustion until fatigue finally wouldn’t let him move anymore and he collapsed on Zeke’s chest, heaving.

“Oh, god...oh, fuck...”

“Casey? Hey...it’s okay...”

“Fuck,” Casey sobbed. “Oh, fuck...” He broke down, pushing his hot, damp face against Zeke’s neck while he cried.

Daring greatly, Zeke slowly raised his hand and stroked Casey’s sweaty hair. There was no sort of negative response, so he kept it up, being careful not to overdo it. He left his other hand lying at his side.

When Casey was mostly quiet, Zeke said, “Case?”

“Y-yeah — “ Casey hitched.

“Um — can I sit up?”

“Yeah.”

Belatedly, he realized he’d made a mistake. He should have lain there flat on his back as long as Casey was willing, for when he sat up, Casey immediately switched back into no-touch mode; he backed away like Zeke was some dangerous predator.

“So,” Zeke wheezed. “Same time tomorrow?”

Casey stared blankly out of his puffy eyes. “You’re...kidding.”

“Nope.”

“You...okay?”

“Yeah.”

“You’re okay with this?”

“Yes.” Zeke shifted with a groan. “I do seem to have a pebble lodged in my ass, though.”

“Oh.”

“Could you help me up?”

Casey gave him his hand.

Zeke came back the next night, as promised. And the next. They stored the padded armour in a garbage bag up on the roof. It was really the only place for it, because it stank of old, rank sweat; Zeke had gotten the stuff used and he regretted it every time he had to pull it on over his crawling skin. But that was his only regret because after that first night, Casey required no coaxing. He would just lay into Zeke as soon as Zeke had donned the padding, silently clenched like a small hurricane. By the end of each session he would be sodden, sobbing, and grateful. One night, he allowed Zeke to hold him for an entire minute. The next time it was ten minutes, and Zeke was even permitted to stroke his hair…but only until he had recovered himself enough to remember that he didn’t want to be touched.

Nothing was ever simple, but it helped Zeke to imagine — to know that he was helping. Casey didn’t have to admit anything about Roy or anything else. He didn’t have to identify the source of his anger. For right or wrong, he’d found a substitute and a target in Zeke, and Zeke had at last figured out that there was something he could give to Casey, something better than a signed confession from Roy.

He could stand there and take it.

Fuck if he didn’t understood the appeal of self-flagellation for monks now, because every blow received equated to a tiny quiver of peace in his gut. It was one less blow that Casey held within his own skin, and soon enough those blows would be depleted, Zeke knew. His Casey wasn’t some moronic, Gabe-esque punk. His Casey used his brains and his wits to score points.

And then there was a night when he arrived and Casey told him that he didn’t need to do “their physical therapy thing” anymore.

“Oh,” Zeke said, and was pummeled with a pathetic realization. He was going to miss their sessions mostly because it was the only time that he and Casey touched each other.

 

 

 

 

Received: February 10, 2002. 02:30 p.m.

RE: You okay?

I haven’t heard from you in a while. Is everything okay? How did it go with that idea you mentioned?

 

Received: February 10, 2002. 11:01 p.m.

RE: RE: You okay?

sorry about that. i just got back from Casey’s actually. the idea has been going great. i thought about what you said about anger and i remembered seeing this scene in a movie or something where this doctor would give his patients a nerf bat and just let them go to town. maybe it was a comedy...but it actually does work. he’s smiling once in a while and sasha says he’s hugging him again. he doesn’t let ME hug him but at least he lets me touch him now, once in a while. i think it’s helping

 

Received: February 11, 2002. 08:09 a.m.

RE: The news

I’m so glad to hear that things are better. Congratulations.

Okay, now don’t shoot the messenger, but Jacob asked if I could just tell you that he’d love to hear from you. Okay? My duty has been discharged.

 

Received: February 11, 2002. 05:40 p.m.

RE: RE: The news

i will not hold against you the fact that feel the need to be Jacob’s emissary. you don’t know him and i’m sure he seems like a decent fellow to you.

 

Received: February 11, 2002. 07:51 p.m.

RE: Give me a break

C’mon, Zeke. Don’t you think it’s time to stop with this whole orphan-boy routine and just grow up? I’m convinced that your mother is a scary character but as for Jacob, haven’t you punished the man enough?

 

Received: February 11, 2002. 11:30 p.m.

RE: Fuck you too

you dont know everything, you knw. he screwed me over and just because the entire world thinks its nice to be on speaking terms with your parets doesn’t mena i need hm.

 

Received: February 12, 2002. 08:52 a.m.

RE: and the self-pitying horse you rode in on

I’ve got news for you. Everyone’s parents screwed them over in some way. If we had to base our whole life around that little truth, society would grind to a halt. Think about that, little brother, or read something. I think Dr. Phil’s pretty good on the subject.

 

 

 

 

The restaurant didn’t look like much from the outside. Outside was a darkened, out of the way street little bigger than an alley, but inside those doors it was all ultra-modern combined with retro-chic in the form of open ceilings and unfinished cement walls. There was one entire wall, however, that had been created a waterfall, and upon seeing Zeke had begun hastily to summon up his current balance on his credit card. He and Sasha had agreed to split this meal down the middle but he had to wonder if it wasn’t a little beyond Sasha’s means.

But this was Sasha’s show. He had wanted to do up Casey’s twentieth birthday in style, and so now Zeke was sitting here with Stokely and Stan on either side of him in the gigantic, round booth, and the rest of them had been just late enough to start him getting edgy and then they arrived, apologizing about the traffic and Zeke thought his eyes were going to boil away in his skull because Casey looked like he had been brought into being through some art beyond and apart from the laws of nature. It took Zeke some moments to figure out what was different and why Sasha looked so shit-disturbing smug, and it came to him that Casey was wearing make-up. As in, on his face.

Zeke found himself wanting to stand, which was more or less impossible while he was trapped here in this booth. Stan muttered, “Holy shit,” and Stokely giggled. She had to have been in on it; no way did Casey pull this off without advance consultation and practice.

“Hi,” Sasha said brightly.

“Hey, folks,” Jerry chimed.

“Hah-happy birthday, Casey,” Stan said.

“Thanks,” Casey replied, and chose the side of the booth that would put him next to Stokely. He settled himself, his eyes floating around the surface of the table. He glanced up at Zeke, briefly, like a stab. There was smudgy darkness around the blue, and his lashes melted into it too so that it seemed like he was nothing but eyes. His lips were an unnaturally pale colour, not quite their usual healthy pink, and the effect just helped with the illusion that his eyes had swallowed up his entire face.

Zeke’s stomach ached --- or trembled, he couldn’t be sure which. He heard conversation around him and yet he couldn’t hear. He knew people were watching Casey too. Out of the corners of their eyes, from across the way, as they passed by. Waiters, customers, the guy behind the bar...they all watched.

It was more than just a dab of colour, more than the shock of seeing a guy transgress the rules. Well, maybe it was that for the strangers, but for Zeke it was an entire sense of this being a person who knew their assets and had taken some care in their presentation. Zeke had always thought Casey beautiful, but in an effortless, unconscious way. Even when he made an effort to be well turned out, the effect was, as most males were trained to convey, as though he didn’t really care. This was not that. This was obvious, potent and kind of hard too, and Zeke wasn’t sure he liked it. It was stunning to see but it didn’t feel like the person that Zeke knew.

On the other hand, it was fucking hot.

“Yo, Zeke.”

“Huh?” he said, blinking, struggling to free himself.

“Are you okay with the tasting menu?” Sasha said.

Zeke realized that the waiter was standing there...waiting. They were all waiting for him, the entire birthday gathering while he mooned.

“Yeah, sure...”

The waiter nodded, said, “Excellent,” and went away.

“... What’s a tasting menu?”

Stan snorted. Stokely giggled.

“Did I say something stupid?” Zeke snarled, having the impression that this entire evening was becoming a joke on him.

“No,” Jerry replied and made a face at Stokely. “It’s just that we just had that conversation.”

“Oh. I guess I’m a little distracted.” Zeke gave Casey a pointed stare, but Casey wasn’t even looking at him.

He had bought Casey a birthday present but apparently his real gift was to allow himself to be the bitch of the evening. Anger twisted and filled him, turning everything he ate into shit…and it was shit, too. Everything was incredibly complicated, constructed like art made of pick-up sticks, and just about as substantial. Whatever was special about this food, it was lost on him, and he couldn’t stop monitoring everyone around them, watching for signs that someone was going to poach what was his.

When Casey made his inevitable trip to the bathroom, Zeke had to follow.

It was just like old times. Casey went into a stall and, as far as Zeke could tell, did nothing but sit there with his feet drawn up under his chin. Except this time, there was a moment when his voice rang: “I know you’re out there, Zeke.”

Zeke stepped up to the door, nearly leaning on it. He was long past being concerned about what anyone else who passed through these public spaces had to think about his and Casey’s behaviour. He said, “Are you okay?”

“Yeah. I just need a little break.”

“Can I come in?”

“No.”

Zeke swallowed an enormous helping of rage, forcing it to bide with the fancy mushrooms and the compote and the truffle oil. “Okay,” he said.

“I’ll be out in a sec,” Casey’s voice told him.

And he was, within a minute. He looked fairly composed, any weariness disguised by the artificial colour on his face.

“Why?” Zeke blurted.

“Huh? Why, what?”

“Why the make-up? Is it just to get me going?”

“Do you like it?”

“No.”

Casey actually had to nerve to look saddened by this news.

“People are staring at you,” Zeke told him.

“I know, I...that’s kind of why I like it.”

“Say again?”

“Um...I always thought people were staring at me anyway...thinking I’m a freak and all that. This way...I’m kind of in control of it. Does that make sense?”

Make-up as armour did make sense; Zeke had known enough females who lived by that precept. He shrugged. “Is that a reason to do anything?”

Casey smiled suddenly. “Um… I also like the way I look.”

Zeke couldn’t speak --- in truth, he was literally deprived of anything to say. He had told Casey he didn’t like it and that patently didn’t hold much sway, which implied the notion that Casey might be considering making himself pretty for someone other than Zeke, and given that, there was nothing left but the rage.

Transforming himself on the spot from shy pride to sly seduction, Casey nudged Zeke’s foot and said, “I think you like it too.”

“Uh...” Zeke strangled. He was hard and aching inside his pants. “...no...”

“I think you do.”

Zeke shook his head, shook himself, and just like that, he couldn’t hold back. “I like you, Case. I don’t care if you want to paint yourself in zebra stripes or go back to wearing K-Mart t-shirts. Are we clear on that?”

Casey stared, all of his affectations dissolving. “Yes,” he whispered.

“Good.” Zeke took a step. “I’m going back to the table. My food, such as it is, is waiting.”

Casey stopped him with a word and a hand. “Zeke.”

His arm trembled under Casey’s touch. “What?”

“I know...how...good you are. To me, I mean.”

“Yeah?”

“I do know.”

“Okay.” Zeke couldn’t do more than that, or he feared he would cry, and that would be a disaster in more ways than one. For one thing, Sasha would kill him. This was supposed to be a happy, happy day, happy in every way. Everyone should smile and laugh, the birds should sing and flowers bloom out of sheer good will.

“You’re so good to me,” Casey muttered.

“Hey! Whose birthday is this anyway?” Zeke turned on Casey, grinning. “I’m the one who should be dishing out the compliments, and you have presents to open, okay?”

“Okay. Did you get me something?”

“Of course. Why wouldn’t I?”

Casey shrugged, allowing himself a tiny smile as he was nudged towards the door.

“Hey, Case.”

“Yeah?”

“I’m sure that after this meal I’m going to need to go get something to eat.” Zeke tried to sound upbeat like he had never tried before in his life. Upbeat and friendly, just looking for company. “You want to join me for a burger?”

He knew, he knew the instant he did it that he shouldn’t but it happened anyway, he reached out and the hand that had started towards Casey’s shoulder landed on his face, stroking, cupping his chin.

Casey blinked and stepped back hard, swaying slightly. “Um...sorry...but no...thanks. Not tonight. Sorry.”

“It’s okay,” Zeke managed to say, lying so hard his entire head hurt. You idiot motherfucking moron! he screamed at himself. Stupid fucking twit, like you didn’t know better!

Back at the dinner table, it took a minute or so to allay Sasha’s anxiety and then they proceeded with the opening of gifts. In addition to having paid the fee for Casey’s driving test --- scheduled for August --- Zeke had gotten him a digital photo printer and a supply of high quality paper. He also presented Casey with a handmade card promising up to fifty hours in the driver’s seat of the Mustang, before August.

The others showered Casey with gift cards for Old Navy, Circuit City and Ross. Casey accepted all this with bright eyes and a happy smile, but Zeke thought he seemed a little uncomfortable with the attention --- a thought that was vindicated when Casey announced a second trip to the bathroom. This time, Zeke forced himself to stay in his seat.

“Um...” Stan said. “You think...?”

“He’s fine,” sang Sasha. “He’ll be back.” And here Sasha gave Zeke a hard look, warning him against getting up not that he needed it.

Jerry cleared his throat. “Hey...you know what I was wondering the other day? When are you and Casey going to make that dinner for us, Zeke?”

Zeke stared at the arched opening to the hallway that Casey had gone into. “I dunno,” he said absently. “I’ll have to talk to him.”

“Cool. I’m looking forward to it.”

“Dinner?” Stokely said.

“At Christmas, Zeke and Casey gave us a certificate promising to cook for us.”

“You know it’s not going to be like this,” Zeke warned, waving his hand over the remains of their last course.

“That’s fine,” Jerry said.

Casey emerged from the hallway, heading towards their table --- but something was wrong. There was a man with him, hovering over him and talking to him. A stranger who had to have been sitting here among them in the dining room all night, watching and waiting for his chance. Zeke’s muscles clenched and he readied himself for launch over the table. Glaring over at Sasha, he saw a person no less prepared for some kind of intervention.

Casey was listening to the stranger; he spoke briefly, and accepted a small white card with a bit of a nod and a smile, then wended his way back to his own table. The stranger followed just a few beats behind and reseated himself with his own group. Zeke stared at the man, taking in the details and not caring if the man knew it. In fact, it was better if the stranger saw him cataloguing him. He was ordinary, with regular features and glasses, average build, nothing odd or striking about him. The very picture of a serial killer. He looked up from his food and saw Zeke staring. He gave a congenial nod.

Zeke decided he was going to go over and kill him --- but Stan nudged him hard. “What?” he snarled. He noticed that Casey was sitting there, looking at him. The white card was nowhere in sight. “What did he want?”

“Keep your voice down,” Stokely muttered.

“I’ll speak at any fucking decibel that I choose to. What did he want, Casey?”

“Just to…um, he introduced himself.”

“And?”

“He give me his phone number,” Casey said.

“You gonna call him?”

Casey rolled his eyes.

“Casey.”

“Do we have to do this now?” Sasha lamented.

Casey lowered his voice and his head and, as though trying to make the conversation private, he said to Zeke, “Of course I’m not going to call him. I’m not interested in dating anyone right now, okay?” The remainder being: But when I am ready, you need to know that I’m not going to be consulting with you, Zeke, and incidentally, you are way out of line.

Zeke sucked oxygen, trying to calm himself. He was going to fucking ruin everyone’s dinner soon and even in his most self-centred, most self-indulgent moments, he didn’t want that. Especially when it was Casey’s birthday. “Okay,” he breathed. “Okay.”

Sasha gave him a glare that said it didn’t much matter what was okay to him, but said nothing.

“Sorry,” Zeke forced out.

“Are we ordering dessert?” Stokely intervened, a bit over-anxious about it. “I hope we’re ordering dessert.”

“Absolutely,” Sasha said, with a sweet smile for her. “They’re famous for it here.”

For the duration of the evening, Zeke made sure that he didn’t misbehave again. He kept up the appearance of a good friend celebrating a good friend’s birthday, and ignored the roiling in his stomach that grew until it felt like a poisonous gas eating through him.

Power was a funny, maddening thing. Casey went around like he had none, and yet he seemed perfectly adept at taking it, wielding it, even using it to toy with people --- well, with Zeke, at least. Casey wouldn’t be happy, it seemed, until he could cause Zeke to make an embarrassing, public mess in his pants. It was like being disempowered could be turned into a twisted kind of control, but as for the power that could be derived from drawing a straight line between Point A and Point B…Casey knew nothing of that, notwithstanding their nightly boxing sessions which had come to an end recently. Maybe that other kind of power, that distorted, backwards self-denying version of it, was an unredeemable contagion. Once you used it, you could never go back. Casey could never go back, even after the therapy was done and the pills swallowed and the voyage of self-discovery and all of it, yeah, even after fucking all of it, he would always be…that.

 

 

 

 

Received: February 26, 2002. 10:03 a.m.

RE: Losing it.

He’s making me insane and he’s doing it on purpose!!! He’s always getting all flirty slutty with me but if I try to touch him he freaks like some little deer. Sometimes I really think he’s just fucking evil. Like tonight he shows up for his birthday dinner all tarted up with make-up and makes eyes at me the entire time, and then when I have a momentary lapse he stares at me like I’m some insane, violent stalker!!!!! And then some guy comes onto him and he smiles at him. he fucking SMILES.

FUCKING LOSING IT HERE.

 

Received: February 26, 2002. 11:46 a.m.

RE: RE: Losing it.

Zeke, I mean this in the most loving, sisterly way. Do you want to go through life as a crazy motherfucker? Because that’s the way you’re headed. Get some therapy or at least get the fuck over yourself. Chloe.

 

 

 

 

Received: March 12, 2002. 09:11 a.m.

RE: Pax?

Okay, it’s been too long. I’ve given you your space to think and ponder and analyze because I know that’s what you’re going to do. But I need to know now. Have you decided I’m worth continuing to speak to?

 

March 12, 2002. 04:40 p.m.

RE: RE: Pax?

yeah, i was mad but im over it. you were right, of course. if i want to keep Casey i have to sort myself out. and its not that i dont know im kind of insane about him. i know this. i’ll tell you and only you: i love him so bad i feel like its killing me. it kills me watching him struggle and it kills me how he doesn’t seem to want me to help. i have to watch him almost crying in the fucking coffee shop at school because he couldn’t make himself go to class at all today, just out of the blue. he doesn’t know why and i don’t know why and his fucking shrink sure doesn’t know why and all i want to do is tell him he doesn’t have to do this shit, he can stay at home and i’ll look after him, he can take his entire ph.d from home if he wants and i’ll pay for it!! if he’ll just let me look after him. but i can’t say that. i have to let him battle through life and it fucking kills me.

i never thought i’d be in this position but i am and i need to figure out how to make this work or give it up. that’s the bottom line. and i’m sorry for going on and on about him. i really should ask you about your life and your job.

 

March 12, 2002. 07:13 p.m.

RE:RE:RE Pax?

First of all, I am always right, lol.

Second. Why, thank you for asking and everything is just fine with me. I’ve dated a couple of different guys but no one who’s leapt out as a life partner. Work is great. And to put your mind at ease, you are going through a THING right now, so I’ll put up with the one-track. If you’re still doing this a year from now, it might be a different story. Got it?

 

March 13, 2002. 12:01 a.m.

RE:RE:RE:RE: Pax?

i got it.

 

March 13, 2002. 9:32 a.m.

RE:RE:RE:RE: Pax?

I’ll tell you a secret: I’m dying to find out what happens.

 

 

 

 

Received: April 15, 2002. 09:56 a.m.

RE: Peace is wonderful

So what’s new?

Zeke’s cell phone jolted him from his reading; it startled him far more than it should have, because he had every reason to expect that it was Casey like it normally was, and as far as he knew, Casey couldn't extend some special sense through the telephone wires and see that he was engaged in a --- months-old, now --- conversation about their relationship with a person that Casey had never met. All the same, Zeke’s heart rattled as he fumbled out his phone.

“Hey!" he gasped, sitting down hard on his bed, which was really Stokely's bed, and wasn't really a bed but a futon.

“Well, hey," sang a female voice, one that he didn't really want to hear. "Good morning, darling.”

“Rachel,” he groaned, collapsing backwards.

“Oh, so that enthusiastic greeting wasn’t for me? I’m hurt.”

Lying flat on his back Zeke stared at the ceiling, reminding himself for at least the fiftieth time that he had allowed her to extort this much communication in return for her leaving his father and new bride their happily ever after in the urban wilderness of California. Still, it was all he could do to say rather than growl, "What do you want?”

“For you to be a little less rude, for starters. I haven’t misbehaved lately, have I?”

Zeke closed his eyes and counted; he was apt to try silly, simple things like that these days. He had been doing a little reading on different methods of meditation lately, and he knew that one of the methods commonly used involved counting. Anyway, Casey used counting to distract himself from anxiety, Zeke had heard him doing it and if it was good enough for Casey maybe there was something to it.

“Okay, no,” he admitted. “That was uncalled for...but I’m going to be seeing you in a couple of hours, after all.”

“Yes, I know, but I have a question, cheri.”

“What?”

“What does Casey like?”

Hearing his mother utter Casey’s name never failed to provoke him. “What do you mean?”

“Just — what sorts of things does he like?”

“Why?”

“Because, Ezekiel, I’m shopping for a little gifty for him." His mother sounded as though she was working to be patient too; the difference between them, though, was that he was entitled to his anger and she wasn’t. "And for you, but I’m assuming that I know how to shop for my own son.”

“Huh,” Zeke grunted, half-amused by her presumption. “You don’t have to.”

“I want to.”

“Why?”

“Because I feel like it! Now are you going to help me...or shall I go with the assortment of sex toys, my dear?”

“You fucking wouldn’t.”

Rachel Tyler giggled. “No! Of course not.”

"That's not a joke."

"Not even a little funny?"

For the length of time it took for the few uncynical neurons remaining in Zeke to combust and die, he was willing to contemplate that his mother might truly not know the difference between a joke and an appalling invasion of privacy. Just that long. “You had better be nice to him, mother, or I swear I’ll — “

"I said I would be nice and I will! Bringing someone a little gift, that’s nice isn’t it? Although why you're worried I don't know, I've never been anything but pleasant to Casey. Does he drink coffee?”

“No.”

“Tea?

“Yes. Preferably without caffeine. Is that enough?”

“Er — but what else does he like?”

Call waiting summoned Zeke's attention.

“Whatever, Rachel...I’ve gotta go.”

“Okay,” his mother sighed. “See you soon.”

“Bye.” Zeke immediately answered the other call, anticipating a returned greeting from Casey. “Hello?”

Stokely’s voice rang in his ear. "Hi ---"

Disappointment got the better of Zeke and he snapped before he could filter himself, “What?”

“Hmmph. Excuse me for saying hello.”

Zeke pushed himself up on an elbow. “Sorry.”

"It's okay...so, I have a question."

"Yeah."

"Did you like that red miso? I can’t remember.”

“Sure.” Since moving in with his dear friend Stokely, Zeke had explored the world of vegetarian cuisine far more intensively than he would have expected in this life — often against his inclination. The most he could say of miso was that he didn’t have strong feelings about it one way or another.

“Really?”

The elbow wasn't comfortable. Zeke flopped again, full-out out on the futon. “It’s all miso to me, Stokes.”

“Okay, then.” Stokely paused, spoke to someone at her end, probably a customer before asking, “Are you freaked about seeing your mum?”

“‘Mum’ isn’t the word.”

With a snort, Stokely returned, “Are you freaked about seeing your mother, then?”

“Freaked isn’t the word either.”

“Okay, why don't you pick a fucking word?”

“Um...preparing."

"Preparing?"

"To be really fucking pissed.”

“At what?”

“I don’t know, she hasn’t done it yet. But she will.”

The snark in Stokely's voice dissolved. “Maybe it won’t be that bad.”

“Sure. And maybe I'll get my dick tattooed.”

“I’m just saying. You could try not to expect the worst.”

“Un-huh.”

“Kay, then. I’ll go. See you later.”

“Yup.”

Zeke tossed the phone on the bed. For a few minutes he lay back and stretched, feeling the pull of inertia. The imminent lunch with Rachel felt like a really unsavoury job that he'd signed up for in a moment of insanity. She had called a few nights back, intruding on what had been, up until that moment, a rather satisfying day. It being Sunday, Sasha and Jerry had been looking for fun activities and had hatched the idea of a midnight rooftop picnic. It sounded ridiculous to Zeke --- especially in early April even if they were having a spell of gorgeous, summery weather --- but of course they had planned a picnic menu the likes of which few people would conceive for a wedding banquet, and decorated the rooftop area. And so, the four of them had climbed the stairs, and Zeke was surprised to find how very enjoyable a tired old tradition could be.

It hadn't hurt that Casey was having one of the best days of Zeke's memory --- he laughed, he told jokes, and he showed very little evidence of anxiety despite the occasional proximity of other people. Zeke didn't throw around the idea of perfection lightly, but it was pretty fucking close. The only thing that would have made it better would have been --- well, the same thing that would have made everything better. Apart from that, there was little that could have stood improvement about it.

And then his cell phone had rung. He didn't know why it hadn't occurred to him to leave it at home. He was in the habit of having it with him as an immediate line to Casey; he hadn't needed it.

He forced himself into an upright position, going back to his computer, which had become something of a glorified typewriter-cum-telephone. He’d spent a bit of time looking for porn but none of the things he’d downloaded in any way lived up to their publicity. Compared to Casey, there were no “beautiful young boys” on the internet, just tired, dissipated pretenders. So aside from typing his papers and doing the occasional bit of research, he used it for email, and to email just one person at that.

rachel called the other night, he replied. He thought that his typing was getting more and more proficient, but he didn’t want to ask Chloe. It wasn’t so much a matter of skill as it was laziness, in his opinion. i knew it was coming but i guess a part of me hoped it wouldnt happen so now im going to be having lunch with her, and Casey will be there too. she suggested it, and she seems to think we’re together. i didnt correct her. am i in trouble, do you think?

The moment after it was sent , he’d wondered if he shouldn’t have been more explicit, more precise about the kind of trouble he meant...but then, she knew so much about his situation, she probably understood that he was pretty much always in trouble right now. Most of it self-inflicted too.

He clicked on sent items.

To open this folder was to view an index of the various permutations of the Casey function from the Terrible January, as Zeke liked to think of it, to date. Although he was beginning to suspect that there would be a time in the future when he would look back at this entire year as Terrible. The Terrible Time Without Casey. Yeah, he hoped to be in a position to apply that label at some point, that Without Casey would not be a Time Without End. Fuck, no. That was not going to happen.

There were moments, though, when he feared…fuck, he feared everything, and every time his emotional house of cards was ready to topple, an email would take flight through cyberspace and land in San Diego. The first one had been tentative, wondering if she hadn’t rather he just fuck off despite her polite offer of an email address that day she drove him to the Los Angeles airport. But reassurances had arrived, just as anticipated. That done with, they’d settled down to an exchange of correspondence that was probably anything but the norm for not-quite step siblings and almost-strangers. Reading down the list of topics, Zeke knew a twinge of embarassed regret.

Yeah, he was a dork about people. Not that he hadn’t rather gotten this impression in his life to date, but with Chloe’s help, the point had been driven home. He expected too much and yet too little. He had his own rules about the world that he foolishly assumed everyone would follow. He was obsessive, controlling. Needy, with five capital letters. And he didn’t see much hope for changing that. So maybe he was strong and smart, with an unusually high degree of self-understanding. The problem, he knew, was not one of understanding but one of desire. He had taken to haunting the self-help sections of bookstores lately, picking up everything from It's Not Up To You: How to Surrender to Happiness to various tomes by the Dalai Lama. The man was clearly very learned and wise, and Zeke had even gone so far as to find a community meditation group and give it a try. He'd gone once, spent half an hour in agony, trying to find ways of surreptitiously shifting position to aid the flow of blood to his legs. Meditation wasn't for him, as much as he was convinced that it had a legitimate scientific basis. His problem wasn't in grasping his own complications. He understood quite well why he did the things he did --- but he wasn't prepared to change.

To change much anyway. As much as he could, he would do. As much as was necessary.

With a brief, longing glance at his package of cigarettes lying near to hand on the desk, he checked for Chloe's reply. Sure enough, it was there. She liked to email from work during the morning.

That depends, was Chloe’s opinion. Does it matter if she knows the truth? And if you aren’t going to tell her, you should probably warn Casey.

Zeke sighed. that’s what I figured, he typed, and sent. A lot of times she told him what he already knew, but it somehow made a difference. She was always direct, incapable of being otherwise apparently. Thank fuck for that — it was a relief and a slice of sanity in a world of Casey-ness, a world where there were never straight lines between any two single points. The problem was, the Casey-parabola were so much more interesting, and addictive.

Addiction was relentless, in fact. Zeke cast another glance at his smoke and stood, leaving off his perusal of the list of sent emails. They were a litany of insecurity and misery that he didn’t care to examine. He only hoped he’d progressed a little along the way. These days were a study of patience and restraint as Casey grew stronger and ever more fascinating. He was a free-form work in progress with no definite sense of anything, playing constantly with his looks, his style, constantly trying and stumbling, scrabbling and pushing. He had taken up swimming, of all things, and the results were beginning to be noticeable. He was a constant inspiration, proof that it was possible to break the mold and start over. Zeke was in awe of that.

Fuck but he could really use a cigarette now. He supposed it was perfectly fair for Stokely to forbid it in the house. Such would be his lot as a smoker...but he would be running late soon.

His cell rang for a third time, and this time there was no one else it could be except the person he most wanted it to be. “Hi, Case,” he answered.

"Hi, Zeke.”

Unable to resist, Zeke toed open his closet door.

It probably wasn’t entirely healthy, keeping a framed print of your boyfriend in your closet. Zeke knew this. He also knew that, strictly speaking, Casey wasn’t his boyfriend, but he’d never liked much liked the word boyfriend anyway. And Casey was so much more than that.

And the framed print, it wasn't just any old picture. Roy might be the mother of all motherfuckers but that thing he had sent to Zeke was a work of art. Even assholes could have a moment of revelation, and the picture really had needed a place to go. Casey might never venture into the space beneath the stairs but Zeke wasn't willing to risk it, not when he wasn’t living at the apartment himself and couldn't always know what Casey was up to; he might just develop a sudden, fiery curiosity about what was down there.

And so, yeah, Zeke had brought the picture to Stokely’s when he moved in, and stashed it in his closet. It wasn’t like he had a fucking shrine to Casey. So maybe he did like to pull it out and have a look now and then. Not for long, just a minute or two to be amazed at how it never really got old, and then he’d put Casey back in the dark with his shirts and his dirty laundry. He’d much rather have the three dimensional Casey in his bedroom, so that had to mean he wasn’t totally fucked.

"Zeke?”

“You...almost ready?”

“Yeah. Is this place fancy?”

“Not really, I think. Look, um...I have to warn you about something.”

“I’ve met your mother, Zeke.”

“No, not that. It’s — well, my mother probably thinks we’re still together.”

“You told her we’re back together?”

“No, I didn’t tell her anything, that’s the point.”

“Oh.”

“Do you mind if we just...didn’t mention it? You know how she likes to mess with people.”

“Oh...okay.”

“We don’t have to do anything, just...”

“We could hold hands.”

Zeke sucked in a breath, and scrambled for a casual reply. “I didn’t set you up, Case, so you would have to touch me.”

In retrospect, perhaps that hadn’t sounded so casual.

"I know,” Casey said then. “That didn’t occur to me.”

“Sorry.”

“It’s just...if I know in advance it makes it easier...Yves said it’s okay to ask. Is it okay?”

Yves said. Zeke was really trying not to hate what Yves said, but Yves said a fuck of a lot, and it always seemed calculated to suck the spontaneity out of existence.

“Of course it’s okay. So, we’ve got handholding. Anything else?”

“I could eat off your plate.”

“You already do that.”

“I know,” Casey giggled.

“How about a kiss?”

Casey barely paused. “With or without tongue?”

“Without. This is my mother, remember?”

“Okay...anything else?”

Zeke stared hard at Casey’s picture, his heart throbbing. “What else would you be willing to do?”

“You could call me pookie or snookums.”

“Then Rachel would know something was up.”

“Fruit loop?”

Zeke’s stomach trembled. “Not in front of her. How about I call you ‘baby’ once in a while?”

“Kay,” Casey said, very soft.

“You sure?”

“Yes.”

“Good, I’ll pick you up in half an hour...baby.”

“Kay.”

Zeke could barely wait for the click before rushing to the bathroom, where he tore off his clothes and got into the shower stall. Not bothering to turn on the water, he fisted his rigid cock and came in about three seconds, crying “Fuck...baby...baby...fuck you...wanna...” Cum dribbled down his groin. Resting his head against the tiles, Zeke sighed and reached for the faucets with a groan. He was so fucked.

Thank fuck Stokely never inquired about his time in the bathroom. She had to have noticed how the minutes added up but she never asked. Come to think of it, she spent a fair bit of time here herself. Maybe she was miserable and lonely too… maybe just about everyone on the planet was…like some philosopher had said. Leading lives of quiet desperation, Zeke didn’t know who it was but he agreed. Stokely, Stan…Charly, sure…his father. Yeah, Jacob Tyler would be a classic case and it looked like Zeke Tyler was his son, as much as he hated it.

There was nothing to do about all this, unless he wanted to be loud about his desperation like Casey, which he wasn’t prepared to do. He wasn’t that brave. Nothing to do but the obvious, the mundane --- get dry and dressed. It was possible, even easy to act like one was in charge. Organized, rational, sane, and fucked up inside.

Before he left the apartment, he sat down and wrote to Chloe: well, i’m on my way to get Casey and meet my mother. wish me well.

And then, before he could triple and quadruple-guess his actions, he typed: okay. it occurs to me that since im willing to have lunch with her it’s only fair that i contact Jacob. does he have an email?

 

 

 

 

“Zeke, darling!” Rachel Tyler did her continental thing, kissing him on both cheeks. “And Casey...you look very well, dear.” She did the same to Casey; Zeke saw him clench, but the moment passed without incident.

And there could be no sinister import to her words. The last time she had seen Casey, he had been taking on water and sinking fast. Now he was healthy and gorgeous — at least ten pounds heavier, his skin and eyes glowing, and the most exotic thing in the room. Zeke liked to think that Casey knew what it meant to Zeke to prove his mother wrong, and that was why Casey looked so damned good today. His shirt was a deep blue, his jeans ripped and covered in hippyish embroidery, his hair artfully mussed. There was no make-up today; he was just perfectly, naturally splendid, intuitively understanding what it took to make an impression on Rachel.

Rachel went to the hostess and told her they would be three, while Casey offered Zeke a smile along with his hand; Zeke grasped both and felt, just for a moment, close to tears. “You rock my world,” he whispered to Casey.

Casey blushed and shrugged. “Shut up.”

Rachel’s voice provided for an unwelcome trio. “Shall we sit?” she said.

The hostess led them to the patio out back, seating them near the center topiary display. The restaurant had been a good choice, Zeke reflected. It was café style, nothing elaborate but still refined, and they could enjoy being outside. It was unseasonable spring temperatures today --- and it was even bright, for once.

The hostess gave them their menus and departed. Casey had let go of Zeke’s hand as they were seated but now he reached under the table and clasped it once again as it lay on Zeke’s knee.

Rachel smiled her most brilliant smile. “I brought presents!” she declared, lifting up the two, medium-sized gift bags she had been carrying. “Here you go...please, open them, yes.”

“Oh, you didn’t have to,” Casey said.

“They’re just little things. Nothing excessive, dear, I promise.”

Zeke grabbed the two items; he deposited them in between himself and Casey and waited, dreading to find out what his mother had chosen for her little grab bags...but Casey’s held nothing but an assortment of teas and a small bottle of Calvin Klein aftershave...or perfume, Zeke realized with a jolt of anger.

“It’s uni-sex,” Rachel informed them. “I thought you might like it.”

“Thank you,” Casey replied. He seemed neutral about it, if not actively curious. Zeke decided he could let it go without comment.

His own gift was a postcard book of Mapplethorpe photographs and a Van Morrison CD. “What am I supposed to do with these?” he demanded, waving the postcards at his mother.

“Let me see,” Casey interposed. He received for the little book, which Zeke couldn’t refuse him without seeming like a lunatic, and began flipping through them, lingering over the muscles and cocks sculpted in ebony, making appreciative noises. “Hoo...oh, my...” he murmured. “Oh…! Wow.”

“Amen,” Rachel said with a smile.

She couldn’t have known about Thomas. There was no way — fuck, Zeke supposed it made him a racist that his brain jumped from images of large black men to Thomas. Fuck. He couldn’t help being a privileged white bastard and really his feelings towards Thomas had nothing to do with race. He could be jealous of any man who showed an interest in Casey, or in whom Casey showed an interest. Any man, regardless of shape or colour. Women, too, if it ever applied.

“Baby,” he said, holding back his growl. “No drooling at the table.”

Casey gave a bit of a guilty start and handed the book back to Zeke. “They’re beautiful.”

“I don’t see why you’d give them to me,” Zeke grumbled in Rachel’s direction.

“I was thinking about how to expand your horizons, dear.”

“Whatever.”

“They are rather famous.”

“Casey’s the photographer here.”

“Really?” Rachel blinked, all innocence. “I didn’t know...but you don’t have to be a photographer to appreciate beauty, do you?”

Under the table, Casey put his hand on Zeke’s. “Sorry,” he murmured.

“I’m sorry,” Rachel said at the same moment, pursing her lips. “I tried.”

Their waiter arrived — a tall, blond guy with the build of Arnold Schwarzenegger’s little brother. Zeke saw both Casey and his mother openly appreciating the man when he walked away to fetch their waters and sodas, and the acids in his stomach began to rattle.

It had been a while since January. Thomas might be out of his life, but Casey was always finding new ways to torment Zeke. Right now, Zeke was quite sure that Casey was flirting with their waiter. When he ordered the sirloin burger, he commented that he had a craving for meat, and the poor man — who was straight, Zeke was pretty sure — turned pink and looked startled while Casey acted oblivious. Zeke nudged Casey with his foot, which was not on the list of Approved Touches. Casey half-leapt in his chair.

“Oh!” Rachel exclaimed. “Are you all right, dear?”

“Yeah. Something just bit me,” Casey muttered with a dark glare in Zeke’s direction.

“We could move inside — “

”No! I mean...it’s nice out here.”

“Yes.” Rachel smiled, and Casey smiled back, and there was absolutely nothing that Zeke could do about it because she had been, so far, almost like someone’s mother. Reaching for the bread, she asked, “So tell me about school, Zeke? How did your fall turn out?”

“Fine,” Zeke grunted.

“Zeke got straight A’s,” Casey announced, quite unnecessarily in Zeke’s opinion.

“Oh, my brilliant son! I’m so proud.”

Zeke tried to shrug off her presumption. He countered, "Casey’s taking a course about popular aesthetics.”

“I’m sure I don’t know just what that means,” Rachel said with a smile.

“He got an 'A' on his first paper."

"Good for you, dear," Rachel said promptly. "But....just one course?"

"I've been taking a break from full time school," Casey replied, so easily that Zeke knew he had rehearsed this one.

"Ah. And...what do you boys plan to do with yourself this summer?"

"Nothing much," Zeke said with a shrug. He knew Casey's days were quite full of everything except school, but that wasn't for him to share.

"Well, ask me where --- " his mother started, and stopped as their lunch arrived.

"Sirloin burger!" the waiter announced.

Zeke narrowed his gaze zooming in on the key details --- Casey's mouth and eyes. His words were nothing that could lend themselves to double or even single entendre --- just "Thank you" --- but the tone needed to be carefully scrutinized. Something about it suggested that Casey was thanking the man for doing more than just his fucking job, and there was something around his mouth that was a smirk, a hint of some shared secret. The light had caught his eyes just so, there was that way that they looked sometimes and Zeke knew the waiter had seen it just from the way he said, "Do you need ketchup for that?" Apparently, there was no one else at the table and while Zeke could have used some ketchup for his own lunch, Casey's sirloin burger was the only order that mattered.

"Yes, please," Casey said.

Zeke clenched his jaw so hard, he feared he might crush a molar. He refused to look at the musclehead as he handed Zeke his meal.

"Is there anything else I can get for you?"

"No, thank you," Rachel said, and smiled at the lump. As soon as he was gone, she leaned in and whispered, "Are you okay there, dear?"

Zeke looked up at her in horror that she could see his state of distraction...but he was not doing very well at hiding it either. He needed to guard himself more carefully. "I'm fine," he said, attacking his steak sandwich.

"So you haven't asked me what I've been up to."

"What have you been up to," Zeke intoned.

"I went to this little spot on the Riviera, spent the whole winter there, actually, and I met the most lovely man!"

Rachel continued on, but Zeke had soon tuned her out. He was mesmerized by a little dribble of juice at the corner of Casey's mouth. What did it taste like? Just beef, or beef and Casey? Of what did the Casey flavour consist, and what was required for it to imprint itself on something?

"...and wouldn't you know, he was proposing? He had the most vulgar ring...but of course I turned him down."

"What did you say?" Zeke broke in.

"Which part?"

"Some guy proposed to you?"

"You haven't been listening, mon chèr. Yes, Armand proposed."

"But you said no."

"That's right."

"Why?"

Rachel smiled enormously. "Who wants to be tied to one man? Some of us just aren't the marrying kind you know, and it's better to be honest about it. Right, Casey?"

Casey sprouted a stunned expression. "Uh...y-yes..."

"Why are you asking him?" Zeke growled.

"No reason...except, you know, dear...you're both so young. I'm surprised at you setting up house." She shrugged and added, before Zeke could respond, "I don't mean anything by it. I'm impressed, actually."

Casey stood up and without thinking, Zeke joined him on his feet. "Where are you going?" he demanded.

In answer, he got a glare. The bathroom, of course, it hardly needed mentioning by now. It had become a safety valve, a necessary ritual at every outing whether Casey felt panicked or not. Except, this time he might just be intending on a little rendez-vous with a certain waiter. Of course there was no way for Zeke to go along without completely exposing both of them to his mother's shit-disturbing.

Zeke sat.

He and his mother both watched Casey moving around tables negotiating a path to the door that led inside the restaurant. Just as he got there, it opened and the waiter was standing there; the waiter stepped aside, gesturing for Casey to enter. Zeke couldn't see if Casey smiled, but he knew that if the man followed Casey in, he was not going to be planted in this chair one second after.

The waiter came towards their table, with a bottle of ketchup and a professional smile. Zeke hated him.

"All right," Rachel said. "I'm ready."

"Ready...?"

The ketchup was deposited in front of Zeke.

"...for what?"

"Dear...to admit I was wrong."

"I know that without you telling me. But about which thing in particular?"

"Casey. I admit I was wrong last summer when I said he was too much trouble. Look at him now. Such a transformation."

Zeke didn't know quite what to say to a statement like this, since he agreed with it so completely and yet so utterly hated hearing it. Rachel Tyler did not need to have, let alone express, opinions about Casey.

"My poor son.”

"What?"

"You and your father are so alike. You have this wonderful way of seeing people that helps you find...someone like Casey. And then you try with all your strength to hold them and scare them away."

Zeke began sawing at his steak. "I’m not like Jacob,” he said, congratulating himself on how unperturbed he sounded.

Rachel just smiled. "You should pay attention to this, dear, instead of just reacting like you always do.”

“All right…go ahead and enlighten me, mother.”

“Some people aren't designed to be loved by one person. You try and you just end up trying to own them. And that's a disaster for both of you."

Zeke put down his fork and knife. "You know..." he started, marshalling his words.

"I'm telling you something I understand, Zeke."

"You think you and Casey work the same? You don’t.” He cast a nauseated eye over his food. “And I really thought we could get through one meal..."

"All right," Rachel sighed. "I'll stop. But I was trying to help."

"No, you're trying to justify yourself."

Rachel didn't answer. Her eyes moved past Zeke, who turned and saw Casey standing there.

"Hi," he said, his eyes flicking uncertainly between the two of them.

"Hi, dear," Rachel cooed. "Don't mind us, we're just doing what we always do. I try to share my idea of maternal wisdom, Zeke reacts badly, and we don't talk again for six months. Then we get together and the whole thing starts all over again."

"Maternal wisdom," Zeke sneered.

"Have a seat, Casey," Rachel said. "Yes, Zeke, but I did say my idea of so you can let that statement pass without inadvertently agreeing that I might have some insight into something."

Casey had reseated himself, and gave all his attention to his burger, eating as though he hoped not to attract anyone's attention.

"I'm sorry, dear," Rachel said to him. "I'm afraid Zeke and I don't get along."

It never failed; no matter how Zeke resolved that she wasn’t going to get to him, she inevitably said something --- or ten things --- that simply needed correction. “See, there you go again, making it sound like it’s our problem when it’s really just you.”

Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Casey’s head come up, sharply, like he had something to say. But that moment passed, and Zeke was fixed on Rachel; she was making a presentation of weary grief and regret, a face that he knew all too well.

“Zeke,” she said. “Believe it or not...I’ve always wanted to be honest with you.”

Casey’s head went down again. Zeke wouldn’t have been surprised if he had ducked under the table, and he wouldn’t have blamed him either.

“I’ve tried to be honest.”

“Yeah,” Zeke answered, infusing his tone with all the contempt that he felt --- nothing too heavy but scathingly light, as though her confession didn’t really even matter. “Right.”

Rachel held his gaze for a slow beat, and then she clawed her napkin out of her lap and tossed it on her plate. "I think I'll go, so the two of you can finish your lunch in peace."

"Oh," Casey whispered, like he might have been thinking about protesting. Zeke put a hand on his arm and dared to presume that it wouldn’t catch Casey off-guard but it did; Casey jerked and nearly spilled his soda and Zeke imagined himself grabbing him again and again, impervious to his fear and his clumsy responses, just doing it, touching and touching until he had shaken that fucking reaction out of him.

Rachel spoke as she rose to her feet. "Remember what I said."

Zeke snarled, "And you remember to leave Jacob alone."

Rather than acknowledge this Rachel stopped, said over her shoulder, "I'll take care of the check."

"Thanks," Casey blurted.

"You're welcome, chèri. Zeke...I'll call in a few months."

"I doubt I'll answer," Zeke shot back.

He watched to make sure she was actually leaving. He followed her figure all the way to the door of the restaurant and as far as he could past that, imagined her moving to the front and giving the host her credit card. He waited a full minute beyond that until his hackles went down.

The food on his plate still held no appeal whatsoever.

"What did she say?" Casey asked. “I mean...when I went to the bathroom?”

Zeke recalled that he needed to check that Casey had not been mussed in any suspicious way. Giving him a careful examination, Zeke did not see anything really out of place. There was a slight breeze that could account for the way that the hair on one side of his head had moved out of its original position. Zeke said, "Nothing worth repeating."

Casey looked in that way that he did a lot; sometimes Zeke wanted to yell at him to stop it because what did he think --- a few months of therapy and he was a psychiatric expert already, imagining that he was probing people with his penetrating gaze?

“Okay,” Casey returned, and poked at his food.

“Are you done?”

“What?”

“With the food?”

“Oh…pretty much.”

“Me too. Let’s go.”

He had parked a few blocks down the street and as they walked, he realized that Casey was being a little less careful than he had been for some time now. They bumped arms once or twice as they walked and it both puzzled and annoyed Zeke; he wasn’t sure when that had changed, when Casey had decided it was okay for them to accidentally touch and why did he still jump whenever Zeke touched him on purpose? He couldn’t actually think that those nudges under the table were Zeke’s idea of a seduction.

“What?” Zeke snapped, daunted by the quiet, and the all-around bizarreness of the person next to him.

"Um..."

“What is it?"

“Don’t be mad at me,” Casey pleaded.

“How can I not be mad about something when I don’t know what it is?”

He didn’t miss the rolling eyes Casey directed towards him. “That’s encouraging.”

“I can’t exactly promise…just spit it out.”

“Maybe…well, I was just thinking maybe your mom’s not so bad.”

“Don’t call her my --- oh, you don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Why don’t you tell me?”

“Huh?”

“Why don’t you explain it to me then.”

Zeke stopped walking. He turned to face Casey, almost not caring if Casey did the same --- but he did, he was there, waiting. Zeke swallowed the first thing he wanted to say, and the second. “Okay. I understand that you’re used to the idea of me being wrong, but I promise you, when it comes to her I am not wrong.”

“I can’t believe you talk to your mother like that. I would never --- “

“Rachel Tyler and Allison Connor are two entirely different people, Casey.”

“She’s still your mother, and you say things to her that are...well...you’re mean to her.”

Zeke turned his back on Casey out of fear that he would do something worse than mean. He closed his eyes and waited for the impact of those words to lose a little of its potency.

From behind, Casey said, his voice small, “I think she’s a sad person.”

“Give me a fucking break.”

“I know she did bad things to you --- “

“You have no idea,” Zeke gritted, turning back on Casey with such ferocity that Casey took a step back. “I can’t have her in my life, do you understand?”

“I do,” Casey said.

“I made a decision and it was the right decision.”

“I’m not saying should change your mind --- “

“Then what are you saying!”

Standing his ground, Casey whispered, “That you could have some compassion.”

Zeke stared at the alien before him for a second, then just continued walking to the car. The alternative was to burst into tears and he wasn’t doing that.

His tormentor had followed him. "Being honest isn’t a bad thing.”

“So?” Zeke strangled.

“Just…she said that…and it’s not bad advice.”

The Mustang reared up in front of them. Zeke went to the passenger’s side and unlocked it for Casey. "So what do you want to tell me?"

“What?”

“There’s something you need to be ‘honest’ about, right?”

Casey wiped his hands nervously. "I didn't say that."

“Un-huh.” Zeke folded his arms, deliberately not moving away from the door.

“I just think maybe she --- she’s not wrong all the time.” Casey said, not meeting Zeke’s eyes.

“Look,” Zeke growled. “My mother has a way of making true things into absolute lies and I don’t want to talk about her or think about her until the next time she decides to have another round of ‘oh, yeah, I have a son’.”

He beat a path around the hood of the car. He was done with Rachel Tyler; he was pretty certain he had just said that too. He was pretty certain he’d said it before. Getting behind the wheel, he expected to find the passenger seat occupied by Casey as usual, but for some reason Casey continued to stand outside the door. Zeke started the car and waited.

Finally, Casey got in. He was angry now, Zeke could see it on his face. Nothing new there, but he wasn’t sure exactly why this time. They seemed to bicker, bitch, debate or even yell at each other on an almost daily basis, and it wasn’t always the fun kind of fighting and --- oh, yeah, he was the one with reasons for anger this time and he was the one who should be wearing that stony look.

“Now what?” he muttered.

Promptly, Casey said, “I hate it when you do that.”

“What?”

“You talk to me like… like I’m this…idiot person and you’re just too tired to continue trying.”

“Casey, you don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“And you say my name like that.”

“Like what?”

“Just like the way you just said it.”

“Maybe if you made some sense!” Zeke shouted.

“Right. I’m crazy and stupid.”

Zeke knew that his inner core was going molten and there was going to be an extinction level event at any moment. He put the car in reverse so he could inch out of the parking spot, knowing that if he spoke it wouldn’t be pretty. For the next several minutes he just concentrated on not running any red lights or getting any speeding tickets.

Several blocks later, he said, “I know I’m an arrogant prick, but I’m like that with everyone, not just you.”

“So I shouldn’t take it personally?”

Zeke huffed but had nothing to say.

Casey muttered something.

"What?”

"Nothing.”

"You said something.”

"Nothing, I said!”

“I want to know what you were just muttering.”

“Fucking okay, then --- I said you’ll say anything to win.”

"It isn’t about winning.”

Casey sighed. He sounded weary to death with the discussion, and Zeke was really feeling him there. “What is it about?”

“It’s about being right.”

 

 

 

 

Received: April 20, 2002. 04:11 a.m.

RE: The middle of the night

yeah, i’m up. i have a paper to finish and i’m just taking a break before the final haul. might as well tell you, i called Jacob today. just a short call, lots of embarrassing silences and stuff but he’s got the idea. he can call me once in a while to see how i am, visit and stuff.

we didn’t talk about any of that stuff we argued about. i don’t think we ever will because there’s nothing to say. i did what i did and i had a good reason but it will always scare him. i guess i don’t really blame him.

Casey asked me again if i would got to therapy with him and i said no this time. no brownie points for me. i’ve been thinking a lot about the things that we always end up arguing about and one of them has to do with aliens invading herrington. i know you don’t really know about that and you probably dont want to hear about it. im just thinking aloud here. you dont have to comment.

i’ve had an epiphany. remember me telling you about that argument we had, the one after lunch with rachel? he said i would do anything to win and i’ve been thinking a lot about that. it’s true, i will change my tune as needed. i’ll argue against myself, put myself down or build myself up, as required. and then i started thinking about it in connection with the aliens. i was wondering why i got to be so reticent about speaking about them when i used to get in everyone’s face reminding them. it actually used to piss me off how everyone was in denial about it. i thought maybe it was because we’re not in herrington anymore but seattle and maybe that is a part of it. like maybe i always wanted to forget about the aliens but i couldn’t a long as we were in herrington because as much as people wanted to deny it they still knew it and if i were to pretend it never happened i would be WRONG. and i can’t allow myself to be wrong, not consciously.

but things happened, like Casey got himself in the hospital and i was terrified. you don’t know how terrified. i felt like it was up to me to get him through that so i made up this stupid lie about the aliens never happening, which as it turned out, really hurt Casey. i thought we dealt with that but maybe i’ve been trying to be right about it all this time, in a way. maybe not letting him talk to Yves about aliens was just my way of making sure that there would always be one thing that was just OURS

i know this. i’m the one whose been the most scared, all along. as scared as he was of losing me, i was terrified of losing him and i had to do everything in my power to control him, to be right, to never ever lose him. he scares me with how brave he is. it would never have occurred to him not to tell the truth about the aliens while i was a total chicken shit who wouldn’t say a thing when it counted, and then i tried to overcompensate by always being in people’s faces about it. how fucking pathetic is that?

you really don’t have to comment, by the way, and i really need to get back to Leibniz and Spinoza.

 

April 21,2002. 09:47 a.m.

RE: Epiphanies.

For what it’s worth, Zeke, I think you’re plenty brave. Not a lot of people would have the guts to try to be that honest with themselves. Of course you have blind spots, that’s the nature of blind spots, that you can’t see them.

I really don’t know what to say about a lot of the stuff you wrote. It sounds like it makes sense. Honestly, I think the most important thing is you admitting that Casey was right. Right?

I googled Casey after your last email. Did you know that there are hundreds of websites that mention him? Some say it was a fraud but most think it was real and they call him a hero just for what he witnessed, never mind saving people. There are people out there who see him as a kind of living grail, and I wouldn’t be surprised at all if some of these people come out of the woodwork at some point. Given that, I’m not so sure it isn’t a bad idea to keep quiet about it.

 

April 21,2002. 11:00 a.m.

RE: RE: Epiphanies.

So what you’re saying is, I was RIGHT.

 

April 21,2002. 11:47 a.m.

RE:RE:RE Epiphanies.

Not exactly. Of course he’d want to talk about it to his shrink about it. It was WRONG to expect him not to.

 

April 22,2002. 12:06 p.m.

RE:RE:RE:RE: Epiphanies.

And yet the basic premise was RIGHT.

 

April 22,2002. 12:15 p.m.

RE:RE:RE:RE: Epiphanies.

I suggest that you change the subject.

 

April 22, 2002. 12:17 p.m.

RE:End of term.

I can’t wait until a week from now whebn everything will be finished up. i was determined not to have this happen to me again, and here i am.

 

April 22,2002. 12:54 p.m.

RE:RE: End of term.

And what do you plan to do with your freedom?

 

April 22,2002. 1:13 p.m.

RE:RE:RE: End of term.

Sleep. Watch TV. Lie around. Maybe go to some museums. Read magazines.

 

April 22,2002. 1:20 p.m.

RE:RE:RE:RE: End of term.

You don’t think you’ll get bored with that?

 

April 22,2002. 1:25 p.m.

RE:RE:RE:RE:RE: End of term.

No frigging way

 

 

 

 

Received: June 1, 2002. 02:22 a.m.

RE: Save me.

i’m bored out of my fucking skull. BORED. Casey and I have been to every museum and art gallery in town. we go out and wander around and he snaps pictures and I watch him. we go driving almost every day and he’s all ready for the test. i think we’ve watched almost every movie at the rental place now. SO BORED.

 

June 1, 2002. 08:22 a.m.

RE: Told you so.

See above.

 

June 1, 2002. 09:17 a.m.

RE:RE: Told you so.

i cant believe this. i just got a call from Casey and he’s on his way to fucking wisconsin with Sasha. apparently his father died. sasha’s, that is. he wants Casey to go with him. i should have known better than to complain.

 

June 1, 2002. 09:51 a.m.

RE:RE:RE:Told you so.

Stay calm, little brother.

 

June 1, 2002. 10:04 a.m.

RE:RE:RE:RE:Told you so.

im totally fucking calm.

 

June 1, 2002. 09:09 a.m.

RE:RE:RE:RE:RE:Told you so.

Yeah, I can really tell how calm you are. Why is this a problem?

 

June 1, 2002. 09:15 a.m.

RE:RE:RE:RE:RE:RE:Told you so.

are you kidding? this is Casey, the guy who never wanted to leave the apartment, who freaked out because i went to LA without him.

 

June 1, 2002. 09:25 a.m.

RE:Calm.

But he isn’t that person anymore, is he?

 

 

 

 

 

Received: June 17, 2002. 04: 59 p.m.

RE: dying

IT'S FUCKING HAPPENED

 

 

 

 

 

The Dalai Lama had written that the fundamental precept of Buddhism was this: Desire was the source of all suffering. Zeke was of the opinion that the Dalai Lama wasn’t just whistling Dixie.

He’d given that a lot of thought and while he agreed with the statement, he wasn’t convinced that desire was illusory either. It worked for some, he supposed. Work at it hard enough and long enough and you could enter some sort of delusional state where the entire physical reality disappeared. No question about that. He’d had reality vanish on him a few times so he could buy it as a philosophical practice. Not for him, but he could respect it.

But there was something that the Dalai Lama had written in one of his books that Zeke really liked. It had to do with service as a means to happiness. In all of his voluminous readings, he had never yet encountered that idea. He had assumed that happiness had to be sought after and constructred, nurtured and harboured as a personal possession, and it had never occurred to him that working for others could lead to happiness. He really fucking dug that bit, although he had no idea how to make it work for him.

And he just couldn’t give up the flesh. It was too real. He was a creature in his body, no doubt about it.

He desired. He fucking desired everything, but especially Casey and not just Casey’s body. He desired his presence and the familiarity of the way he spoke and moved. He desired his smile, his laugh, his tears, all of it, and the more time he spent with Casey, the more he desired.

Above all, he desired to know that Casey desired him, and for more than sex. He knew he turned Casey on; he saw it in Casey’s eyes and the way he flirted with him sometimes. He knew that Casey sometimes thought about just throwing away common sense and jumping in the sack with him. But he also saw Casey looking at other men. Sex just wasn’t going to be enough if that was all that there was between them.

There had been more, hadn’t there? There was still that more. He was sure of it… so he didn’t at first comprehend what Casey was saying to him right now.

“Um...what?” Zeke stammered.

They were in the Mustang, on their way back to Casey’s place after seeing Spiderman, they’d spent a typical morning together --- Casey snapping photos of objects but his eyes constantly wandering to people, Zeke watching should he attempt to take a picture of any male in their vicinity, all of it so normal and fraught and Zeke now realized he would have happily had that situation continue indefinitely because Casey was really saying what he’d thought he said:

“There’s a guy at the swimming pool.”

Minutes seemed to pass without incident. Zeke thought he was doing well at staying calm and not reacting, until he noticed that he seemed to be whipping by the other cars on the road. Glancing down, he saw that he was going over fifty. He made an effort to slow down, gripping the steering wheel fiercely to control his hands.

Casey went on, “He asked me to --- he asked me if I wanted to go with him and some other guys --- tonight.”

“A guy,” Zeke said.

“Yeah.”

“And some other guys.”

“Um…yeah.”

“Go where?”

“Out to a --- a bar --- or club or something.”

“But it’s a date.”

“Kinda...I don’t know. I guess.”

“Who is he?”

“Just a guy. His name’s Chris.”

“And where did you meet him?”

“At the pool this morning.”

“When did you start talking to guys at the pool?”

“Um…today. He talked to me.”

“Are you sure?”

“Whah?”

“Are you sure you just met him today?”

Casey was quiet.

“Are you sure he hasn’t been fucking you all along?”

Casey was especially quiet.

“Maybe you and he have been sneaking into the showers together so he could do your ass, huh?”

“No,” Casey muttered.

Zeke knew he was way out of control now, and he couldn’t stop. “You’re always flirting, coming on to anything with a cock!”

“I am not!”

“I’ve seen you.”

“Like when?”

“Huh?”

“Give me some evidence, Zeke. You like evidence, right?”

“There was that waiter.”

“What waiter?”

Zeke shouted, “The waiter, the fucking waiter at the restaurant!”

“I don’t know what --- “

“When we went out for lunch with my mother.”

“That was months ---“

“You were flirting with him!”

“I don’t even remember this person!”

“’I have a craving for meat’, remember that?”

“Okay, I --- maybe I did check him out but I --- how could I flirt when he didn’t even know I checked him out --- I --- I didn’t flirt!”

“Do you think I’m fucking blind, Casey!” Zeke turned the corner onto the street where they had both used to live, rather too fast. Casey was pulled sideways towards Zeke. Zeke was able to glance down and get a dramatic angle on his face, briefly before he straightened himself. He recalled that Casey owed him a kiss from that day. That flirty, teasing conversation on the phone, the promise of unprecedented touching and kissing that had been aborted, Casey might have thought he had forgotten but he hadn’t. It was two-months overdue now and he was going to collect.

He immediately pulled over onto the curb and put the car in park. He grabbed Casey’s shoulders, wrenching him towards him, not caring about the fact that Casey was still belted in. Casey made a noise between a howl and a scream, a sound of utter panic, and Zeke let him go.

“Case --- “

Casey was up and out of the car, hurrying down the sidewalk. Zeke fumbled with the seatbelt, barely getting out without falling, and ran after him.

“Case.”

“Leave me alone.”

“Case…Casey, I’m sorry.”

“I know. I’ll walk the rest of the way.”

“I’ll drive you.”

“It’s only a few blocks.”

“You want to punch me? You have to stop walking.”

Casey stopped and turned to him, his chest heaving, his eyes wet and slightly hysterical. His hands were formed into fists at his side --- but then, instead of speaking or swinging, he whirled and resumed his scramble down the sidewalk. Zeke followed, wheezing with the effort of forcing oxygen in and out of his lungs.

“Casey,” he called. “Ha-have mercy.”

When he saw Casey stop, he did also and bent over, putting his hands on his knees. At length, he looked up and realized that Casey was standing there in front of him.

“That’s pathetic,” Casey said, with little expression.

“I…I know…”

“Being jealous of a waiter from months ago is also pathetic.”

“Right.”

“And I can fuck whoever I want.”

Zeke managed to straighten up. He whispered, “Are you sure you wouldn’t rather punch me?”

Casey closed his eyes briefly; opening them, he said, “I’m just going out, Zeke. I need to be able to do that.”

“I know, but…but…” Zeke spat to clear the foul taste from his mouth. “Since it’s not a date…maybe I could come along.”

Casey shook his head, although Zeke thought he seemed tempted. He had to be nervous about this --- he hadn’t changed that much, he had to be scared. He would be treating this as another exercise, another have to just like taking that course and working at Wellth. Zeke wasn’t a fucking idiot.

“No,” Casey said softly.

“Okay,” Zeke replied, because he had no choice.

“Zeke,” Casey said, and his voice trembled. “I…I have to be able to do this.”

“I get it.”

“It’s not about you.”

“I get that too. But it doesn’t make it any easier for me.”

“Should I not tell you these things?”

Zeke got ready to growl, to roar --- but then he saw that Casey was asking a serious question. “You mean, would it be less painful if I didn’t know?”

Casey nodded.

Zeke gave that serious consideration. Was it possible that what he didn’t know couldn’t hurt him?

“No,” he said.

“But, Zeke --- “

“I want to kn --- I need to know who touches you. Who looks at you, if possible, and even if it kills me the thing is, I can imagine far worse.”

“I’m just going out,” Casey said stubbornly.

Zeke nodded but he knew --- he knew --- that it was far worse than that.

He had thought that Casey going with Sasha to Wisconsin had been a real challenge. In his mind, it had been a test which he’d passed and then some. He had stayed calm when Casey called to inform him he was at the airport. He had been gently but firmly encouraging. He hadn’t even reacted — much — when Casey called him drunk from some shithole bar in Shithole, Wisconsin. Actually, drunk Casey was pretty cute but Zeke wasn’t going to admit it to anyone.

It had been nice, too, the way Casey greeted him at the airport with a huge hug, wrapping those wiry arms and legs around Zeke like some sort of baby primate in one of those horrible experiments from the 1960s. Attachment theory, the scientists called it. It was the opposite of everything the Dalai Lama stood for, the reason why the Lama was dead fucking wrong.

Zeke could have told the fuckers a thing or two about attachment.

Attachment was having to watch but not touch your beloved while he sat in a coffee shop berating himself over his inability to make nice with strangers. It was listening to him cry because he hadn’t been able to sit through the entire lecture that day and he figured he was doomed to go through life without a university degree...while all the while it was all you could do not to tell him that he didn’t need anything or anyone but you. It was letting him go to an entire other state halfway across the country even though you wanted — felt entitled to forbid him to go. Because it would be good for him to go. Bad for you, good for him.

Attachment was sitting through a birthday dinner with a bad ache in your gut and a worse one in your crotch, subjected to a smirking Sasha and Stokely, just because your loved one had put make-up on his face. Every little change was noteworthy, and this was minor, however it amused his friends to see him squirm. Oh, he loved the smoky-eyed look, he did, but it was a huge deal not because it was something as silly as make-up, but because it was Casey feeling free enough to wear it. It meant that Zeke never really knew what to expect from him and it turned him the fuck on.

Attachment was exposing yourself to ridicule and the charge of obviousness because you had to be with Casey every day, for as many hours of the day as possible. Movie theatres, museums, bookstores, or just the middle of nowhere in a car. All of those places were really the same place --- they were Being With Casey, and yet still always missing him. So attachment definitely meant sitting there knowing that, at worst, you were the butt of a joke or, at best, an object of pity.

And he had been wrong. Wisconsin had just been a practice run for a final exam he didn’t think he’d be able to pass.

 

 

 

 

 

Received June 17, 2002. 09:21 p.m.

RE: dying

Zeke, are you okay? What’s going on?

 

 

 

 

 

Zeke lit his ninth cigarette and stared up at the building Casey had gone into not half an hour ago. He had no idea which apartment it was, or even which floor, and it was insanity to stand out here, of course. Just like it had been insanity to follow Casey here.

Not that it was that hard. He had assumed Casey would be walking or taking the bus, so he went to the stop just before Casey’s stop and sat in the back. He knew that Casey always got on at the front and sat near the driver, and by ducking his head strategically, Zeke was able to keep Casey from seeing him. When Casey got off the bus, Zeke got off at the next stop and raced back towards Casey’s stop. He caught fortuitous sight of him a few blocks away, and followed at a distance.

Okay, maybe it had been a little hard.

There had been several moments when he’d thought Casey knew he was there, but it seemed that he hadn’t. There was no reason why anyone need ever known that he’d done this, followed Casey to his date. And there was no reason for Zeke to go in that building and find Casey, confront the prick who probably had his prick in Casey right now. Fucking him, using him who was more than willing to be used even though there was a person out here waiting who would have wrapped him in silk and --- and ---

No reason to go in there and make it all stop.

Unless Casey was in trouble. But Sasha had said they had a plan for Casey to call him and reassure him and there was no reason to assume trouble --- except that, of course, if something happened, the phone-call plan would in no way prevent it. Sasha knew that. Casey knew that, yet still he chose to do this. It shouldn’t be a big deal but for Casey, it was. For Casey, this was dangerous and that was why he was doing it.

A group of three guys approached and entered the building, laughing and joshing each other like guys tended to do. Zeke watched them, wondering if he could sneak in behind them when they got buzzed in.

No. He couldn’t be this insane. Stalking his ex-boyfriend, following him around…keeping a photo of him in his closet. He was beyond pathetic.

“Fuck,” Zeke muttered. His mouth tasted like ash.

There was no point to standing here. He started walking back to the bus stop, his head ringing with Casey’s words to him earlier. Just going out…I’m just going out… but they had both known it was more than that, and in some crazy way, Zeke had really wondered whether Casey would go through with it.

Clearly, he was.

Zeke threw his butt on the ground and suddenly he was also emitting a howl, something that sounded like fuck in his head but came out “Rgrgraaaghgh!”

The thing that killed him was that his certainty that Casey loved him had not been shaken one iota. He had to believe it, he had to --- but maybe Casey was just never going to be ready to admit it and settle into it. He was just too much damaged and ---

Fucking is what sluts call therapy.

\--- no, not a slut, but something you could call a slut if slut wasn’t a bad word. He had to stop thinking it, though, because eventually he would say it --- say it again --- and that would be a disaster for him and Casey.

There were things he believed, he realized. He never thought he believed anything, he thought it was all just reasoned out and therefore credible but in fact, these were articles of faith: If you loved someone, you had the right to want them to not touch anyone but you. You had the right to ask them, and if they loved you back, you had the right to expect them to make certain concessions. Like not fucking whomever, whenever.

There was nothing for him to do except go home, and so he did. He found the bus stop and rode it until it was as close to his neighbourhood as the route could take him. He walked the rest of the way, not very far.

Two blocks from home, he passed Video Network, the place that he and Stokely always went to and the bitter thought came that fucking Dmitri of Video Now and Then probably understood more about Casey than Zeke. Dmitri had a direct beam-up to Planet Casey, knowing as much as he did about Casey’s likes and dislikes, chit-chatting with him all the time about film. It was like some secret, coded language that they shared.

On impulse, Zeke turned into the store, which fortunately for him was open until midnight. The girl behind the counter was the same girl who was there every night, looking resentful and bored. Zeke stared at her, considered asking her if she could recommend a romantic movie. He knew of a few himself, but there had to be something he was missing. Some movie that would provide the clue.

Maybe if he watched The Philadelphia Story over and over, some epiphany would arrive. Stokely had told him once that Casey just liked the cheese but Zeke had his doubts about that theory. There was nothing cheeseball about a guy who went out looking for sex with complete strangers, unless you wanted to buy the theory that Casey was looking for love in all the wrong places, yadda, yadda, yadda. It was Zeke’s personal opinion that Casey was absolutely not looking for love, that he was in fact avoiding love with all his considerable determination --- and well, maybe there was something kind of invertedly cheeseball about that.

Perhaps a course in the romantic comedy genre? It wasn’t like Zeke had anything better to do, and there was no reason to think that Casey hadn’t watched just as many of these as anything else. The problem was, Zeke had no idea if he’d watched any particular one of them.

Sighing heavily, Zeke began to scan the titles. Memory did nudge as his eye roved past a couple. Steel Magnolias, he remembered having a conversation with Casey about that once, just briefly.

…Steel Magnolias?

…seen it too many times…

… you’re strange…

His eye fell on Moonstruck. Okay. And there was that time in the hospital, an exchange of sorts between Sasha and Casey when Casey was barely willing to participate. Casey’s roommate at the hospital, a large guy whose name Zeke could no longer remember, singing and Sasha…You’ve seen that one, haven’t you, kitten…?

Zeke decided he’d start with a review of The Philadelphia Story, and then those two. Somewhere along the line he might get to Sleepless in Seattle, When Harry Met Sally, An Affair to Remember, Pillow Talk, Bringing Up Baby --- what the fuck, it was about a lion but it had Kate Hepburn in it. Casey had a thing about Kate Hepburn.

“Okay,” he said aloud. “That’s probably enough.”

The girl at the counter did not comment on what had to be a very odd selection of films for a guy. Nor did she comment as she checked in the movies, but he could well imagine what she was thinking. He wanted to explain that he really couldn’t stand this crap, that it was pure research.

At home, Stokely was slouched on the couch, flipping TV channels. “There’s some tempeh cutlet in the fridge --- “ And she broke off as he built his pile of videos on top of the television. What do you have there?”

“Research,” he grunted.

“Research,” she echoed.

“I want to fucking understand what goes through Casey’s brain.”

Stokely was quiet for a second. “What has he done now?”

“Oh, nothing. He’s just at some guy’s apartment getting fucked.”

There was a creak as Stokely sat forward on the couch. “I doubt --- “

“He told me himself, Stokely.”

Zeke turned around and went to the chair --- a chair where he’d once found Casey curled up and zoned. He’d been the hero that night. No one else could have done what he’d done. Those were the days, he mused bitterly.

“He told you he was going to --- “

“He said he was going out, okay? I could see there was more to it, so I followed him.”

“You followed him.”

“Could you stop repeating me?”

“Sorry, but…you followed him?”

“Well, it wasn’t like he was going to tell me the truth.”

“Seems like he kind of did.”

“Yeah, except the part he left out about how he went in the apartment and didn’t come out.”

Stokely pressed her lips together. She said quietly, “It’s called a date, Zeke.”

“I don’t think it was a date.”

“Whatever. The fact is, he wants to start playing the field or whatever you call it. He wants to get out there on the market and I know why he’s doing it. He just wants to prove that he doesn’t have to be with me.”

“Maybe he wants to have a good time, Zeke, have you thought of that?”

“Yes. A good time without me.” Zeke closed his eyes and sighed, and tried to reboot his brain. Reformat his hard drive so he didn’t have the image of Casey with some guy…some guy who didn’t have a face or a name. “Stokely…” he said.

“Yeah.”

“Do you think Casey’s the kind of person who can be with one person?”

Stokely seemed to be seriously considering the question. “Is that a nice way of saying something insulting?”

“I’m trying to not use the word, Stokely. I’m trying to be open to the possibility…and you have no idea how hard it is for me.”

“I think…I think, I don’t know what kind of person Casey is. I don’t think Casey knows what kind of person Casey is, and that’s the whole point.”

“Yeah.”

“I think if you want to be the hero here you have to give him as much room as he needs.”

“I have!”

“For real, Zeke.”

“I have. I didn’t go in that building and drag him out, I went with him to visit fucking Thomas, I’ve totally let him do his own thing for the last six months.”

“Except you’re forgetting it isn’t up to you to ‘let’ him do anything.”

“Figure of speech.”

“Yeah. Un-huh.”

“Hey, I’ve read the fucking self-help books. I read the fucking Dalai Lama, I know the whole bit about giving up control. You give up control, you attain happiness, blah, blah, blah…”

“I can see they made a huge impression.”

“I understand that stuff, Stokely. I know why I do what I do and I know I’m the author of my own misery, I understand all that shit but it doesn’t mean I can choose to stop.”

Stokely threw her hands up. “I don’t know what to say. You’re way smarter than me, Zeke, and if you can’t figure out a way to sort yourself out then I don’t know what I can say.”

Zeke subsided on the couch. “You don’t have to say anything,” he muttered.

“You wanna know what Charly says?”

He scowled. “I don’t know. Do I?”

“She really likes you, Zeke.”

“Whatever.”

“But she says you’re too old for Casey.”

“What the fuck? I’m only three years --- “

“No, she means that you’re twenty-three but you act like you’re way older. And Casey…in some ways, he’s still sixteen.”

Zeke considered that. “I’m not sure I agree.”

“Maybe you want things from him that are reasonable for a forty-year-old but not for a kid.”

Zeke shook his head. “I don’t want to talk about this anymore. I want to watch my movie.”

“Okay,” Stokely sighed.

“Wanna watch?”

“As long as it isn’t The Philadelphia Story, sure.”

He put inMoonstuck, which turned out to be something different than he was expecting. It was determinedly, self-consciously unrealistic and yet strangely true to Zeke’s eyes and ears. They watched for a while, laughing out loud at many of the more bizarre moments. After watching Nicolas Cage sweep Cher off her feet and carry her to the bed to ravish her, Zeke had a thought and said, “Stokes.”

“Yeah.”

“Do you really think Casey likes cheese?”

“Huh?”

“You said one time that Casey can’t get enough cheese. Cheese as in cheesy, as in goofball, as in --- “

“Oh, yeah. Sure.”

“You think he’s a sucker for this stuff?”

“I don’t know, Zeke! I guess I assumed it. And…yeah, he used to moon over you.”

“Moon over me?”

“You know what I mean.”

“In high school?”

“Yeah.”

Zeke stared at the image of the moon up on the screen, accompanied by cheeseball opera tunes, and he thought that maybe the Casey who used to moon over him was long gone. Too many things had happened for him to remain that person.

Stokely sighed and, reaching over, patted Zeke’s shoulder. He scowled at her and resumed watching, not certain if he liked the movie or not.

And now a moment came when the character up on the screen, the slow-talking, ordinary-and-not-so-ordinary guy who had fallen in love over a steak and a glass of whiskey, that man opened his mouth and uttered the moral of the whole movie.

“’Loretta, I love you. Not…like they say love is, and I didn’t know this myself but love don’t make things right. It don’t make things perfect. It ruins everything. It breaks your heart. The snowflakes are perfect. The stars are perfect.…not us…not us. We were put here to ruin ourselves…and love the wrong people…and…and die! I mean, the stories are bullshit!’”

“Zeke,” Stokely’s voice intruded.

Zeke shook his head. “Shh.” He still didn’t know if he liked it or not. He didn’t know if it was good or bad, just that he had to keep watching.

“’Now…I want you to go upstairs and getin my bed!” commanded the one-handed romantic hero. Most likely, it was the fact that he was Nicholas Cage and she was Cher that allowed him to get away with it. Under some other circumstances Zeke might have guffawed out loud but today, tonight, it was just too apt.

“Zeke.”

In Hollywood, shit like that worked, he knew that with glum certainty. That was the only way that shit like that could ever work. It was fiction.

“Zeke.”

He pulled his eyes away from the screen to respond to Stokely. “What?”

“Your phone is ringing.”

“Oh,” he said, going back to the images and the swell of operatic melody in a made-up world where people could fall in love in an instant and live happily ever after. That only happened in make-believe, the movie seemed to say with a nudge and a wink.

“Are you going to get it?”

He shrugged. He knew who it was. He didn’t want to talk to who it was.

But now that it had been pointed out to him, he couldn’t stop hearing the ringing even if it was in the distance. He tried to block it out and finish with Ronny and Loretta, and it seemed he was going to have some success --- until Stokely came back into the room which he hadn’t even realized she’d left, holding the phone.

“It’s Casey,” she whispered. She was holding out the phone with the mouthpiece covered.

“I’m not here,” he retorted, and he shot a glare at her for daring to force him to do anything.

“He sounds upset.”

Despite himself, he blinked, losing his focus on being angry. “Upset how?”

“Talk to him, Zeke.”

His body seemed to act without direction, taking the phone. “Casey?”

“Z-Zeke?”

“Yeah.”

“Zeke…”

Fuck. It was the good old days now, wasn’t it? Casey’s voice was trembling and needy. Desperate for whatever Zeke could give him…oh, yeah, now he wanted Zeke, now that he’d gone and done whatever he wanted to do.

“What is it, Case?” Zeke said, hating himself for sounding so concerned when he’d sworn to himself he was not-speaking to Casey. Not. Fucking. Speaking.

“Can you c-come over?”

It was the stutter that did him in; Zeke closed his eyes, remembering very well that he’d sworn to himself, sworn that he was not going to be easy the next time Casey wanted to talk to him. He was angry and hurt and depressed, motherfuckinnit, and he was well within his rights.

“Why?”

Casey made an odd, gulping noise, and Zeke’s body shot right past his brain. His brain said not to fall for it but the rest of him was absolutely certain that it was urgent, it was an emergency. “Sasha’s at work?” he said stupidly, struggling to reboot. “Can you call him?”

But there was that sound again.

“Okay,” Zeke capitulated. “I’ll be right there.”

“Kay.”

This only intensified the sense of urgency. Casey reduced to one syllable replies was a nightmare that Zeke didn’t want to revisit. The Casey of a year later who scrapped and spat was a Casey that Zeke could argue back to and be angry at; if they were back to this then Zeke was back to the times of having to keep it all to himself and going nuts --- going nuts in a completely different way than he was going nuts these days, but of the two he thought he preferred this way. At least this way --- the way it had been until this phone call --- he could use his words.

“Hang in there, Case.”

He thumbed off, tossed the phone on the couch then changed his mind and snatched it up. Next, he nearly left his wallet, and he couldn’t find his fucking keys. He was aware of Stokely watching him as he circled around the apartment but he didn’t care how ridiculous he looked. Casey needed him.

“Call me?” she said just before he ran out the door.

“Okay!” he shouted back over his shoulder.

“Promise?”

“Yes!”

It took him thirteen minutes to get to the apartment when it should have taken nine, because every fucking person in Seattle except him was an idiot who couldn’t drive. He snarled and cursed and pounded his steering wheel but it didn’t help. Thirteen minutes, long enough for anything to happen. Pulling into the lane behind the building, he could see the light on in the kitchen but nothing else.

He ran up the steps and pounded on the door, in dread of what he might find, most of all that they were all busted right back to January, or August, or even worse than that, and all because Casey had to do it his way and there was no reasoning or arguing, it was Casey’s choice and he was choosing. And now they could be completely fucked all over again.

Casey was not coming to the door.

It seemed like at least an hour that Zeke had been standing there and he was seriously considering breaking it down. Of course that wasn’t necessary because he did have a key --- but he considered it unjust that Frank Connor got to break down a door once and he, Zeke, hadn’t. He had lived through enough drama and angst, he was entitled to a gesture like that.

He pounded again. “Casey!” he shouted, and began to fumble with his keys, searching for the one he wanted.

Just as he was about to use it, the door opened and Casey stood there. Zeke took stock of him and felt his heart sink into his stomach. He was wearing clothes that had to have been for going out, all black and skin-hugging. His eyes were a tragic hue, surrounded by puffy red skin. And his mouth was swollen, which Zeke didn’t think was just from crying.

“What happened?” Zeke demanded.

Casey just blinked up him and shivered.

“What. Happened.”

He knew he didn’t sound all that sympathetic, but it was only because the way that Casey looked right now, this was going to be all he could do to maintain some self-respect.

“Did someone do something to you?”

Casey closed his eyes.

“Some guy did this to you, right? That guy from the pool…? Okay, I’m going to go and fuck him up.” And Zeke made a move to do just that, turning around to head back to his car. “Fuck him up so bad he’ll be getting all his meals from an IV bag --- “

A hand grasped his arm. Zeke looked down at it with near disgust, at the thought that Casey would dare to call him over here, let him see things and then keep him from retribution.

“Zeke.”

“Casey.”

“Zeke…”

“What? Talk to me --- “

“Hold me in.”

“Huh?”

“H-hold me…” Casey seemed to be breaking up, breaking into something beyond tears yet somehow failing to move towards Zeke despite his demands. “Hold m-me, hold me in…hold me in…”

Zeke surrendered. He stepped forward and grabbed Casey, pulling him against his body. “Okay, okay, okay…okay…” He felt at last Casey seeking his touch for something other than violence. Except this was a bit violent too, Casey was not just clinging but clawing at him, still muttering that bizarre, bewildering mantra.

Oh, fuck, it had to be wrong to love this so much. Zeke held Casey as tight as his arms could do without hurting and it still wasn’t enough. He wanted to pick him up and cradle him, as silly as it would seem --- but then Casey was trying to climb his body so he went with it, letting Casey turn into a human corset around him, arms and legs squeezing his torso his mouth open and wet against Zeke’s neck.

It was then Zeke noticed that Casey smelled of sex.

Zeke could have dropped him and started howling but he did what was most logical at the moment, cradling Casey closer, let him burrow…carrying him clinging like a child down the hall and into the bedroom.

They both rather fell on the bed, and Zeke was afraid that he fell right on top of Casey, squashing him. Casey didn’t seem to mind, and he didn’t seem to mind Zeke’s hands under his shirt, pushing it, fighting with it. In fact he went still, letting Zeke have his way and not really helping. Finally Zeke had wrenched Casey’s shirt up over his head and tossed it across the room, a furious missile of inside-out. Zeke’s starved eyes were roving Casey’s pale flesh, until they stuttered over a mark, and another mark. There were some around his neck, possibly on his back and he couldn’t be satisfied until he had seen them all. There was no thought in his mind of how Casey would react, they were way past that now and Casey let him strip him completely, going still for it. Zeke turned his body over a few times, like a beast with a favourite toy, taking inventory. There were the swollen lips, a few nips around his neck, and funny marks on his knees --- half bruise, half burn. And there were bruises on his hips, and traces of things that Zeke couldn’t bear to put a name to. It was enough to know what it meant.

Zeke heard himself make a sound. A roar, maybe.

Casey’s eyes stared up at him. Not terrified, but terrifying. Zeke was about to get lost and drown there and he couldn’t because this being before him was the one begging for help…help of him, somehow? Help from Zeke Tyler who was flawed and controlling and cold, who was stubborn and set in his ways already at twenty-three, who didn’t have a clue how emotions worked. Zeke Tyler had had a bad mother and inconsistent father, and too much time on his own to develop his own habits for survival.

But still there were those orb-like things right in Zeke’s face, those big, alien eyes and they begged: Hold me in. Hold me in.

It was like something broke open, maybe, in Zeke, something literally moving inside his chest, a thing that had never happened to him before and defied description. He wouldn’t have known how to describe it, except that he knew a sudden, strange kind of quiet that rushed over him, like an honest-to-fuck wave of something chemical or hormonal but more powerful than that. If someone had described it to him he would have grunted and dismissed them as a flake, but it was happening to him now and he couldn’t deny its truth. He wasn’t angry anymore, merely full and warm with gratitude that he was here right now and the thought that he was supposed to be here, no one else. He was supposed to be the one who received that plea because he was the one who was going to do right by Casey.

“Let’s go get you clean,” he said.

His voice sounded odd, not at all like his own. He saw and heard himself from afar gathering up Casey with an arm around his back and another under his knees, carrying his naked form into the bathroom. He closed the door by kicking it with his foot, made sure it was shut all the way --- Sasha could return at any moment after all, and this was not Sasha’s task but his. Sasha could not do or be this to Casey.

He started to put Casey down, on the toilet seat for lack of anywhere else, except that Casey started to struggle a bit. “I can --- “ he started.

“No,” Zeke said.

Casey’s eyes stared at his, far too close, far too intense.

“Just…a second.”

He realized that he had to let Casey get down, though, and so he did. Bending down on one knee, he started the water running and flipped the latch so he could fill the bathtub. He found a bottle of shower gel that was probably Sasha’s --- melon and cucumber, yup, it wasn’t Casey’s because Casey never smelled like that --- and squeezed a generous portion of it under the running water. Bubbles began to pile up in the tub.

Turning and straightening, he saw Casey still staring at him. “I’m going to give you a bath,” Zeke informed him, and he held out his hand.

“Why?” Casey whispered.

That he could ask that while he was standing there reeking of another man’s semen and sweat should have sent Zeke insane, but it didn’t. He merely felt a quiver of compassion and a deepening sense of patience. He was impermeable; nothing could upset him now.

“Just let me.”

This time, Casey accepted Zeke’s hand and let himself be guided, standing there while the water and bubbles climbed up past his ankles, shivering at the contrast in temperatures. Again, Zeke surveyed him, making himself look at everything. He was testing himself, he knew. At some great distance, there was a sense of outrage, but not for here. Not now.

Casey’s reddened eyes were on him. Casey could see him watching, assessing; Casey sat down suddenly, hiding as much of himself as he could, making himself small and continuing to shiver. He was no longer terrifying to Zeke, and while he might have been pitiful with his skinny arms and downcast face, he was not. He was just so…not.

Zeke busied himself by fetching fresh towels. When he returned, Casey was in exactly the same position only now he was dropping fresh tears into the mix. Putting a folded towel under his own knees, Zeke lathered up his hands and began methodically clean Casey’s body. He did not propose to linger or attempt anything more than to cover every bit of his skin, using a system that began at the neck and shoulders. He was extremely conscious that Casey’s unblinking gaze was now focused on him.

“Melon and cucumber,” Zeke said matter of factly. “I’ve never understood why people should want to smell like a salad.” He poured warm water over Casey’s neck, resisting the urge to use his hands to trace Casey’s lips, to erase the traces of someone else. “This one’s okay, I hope. Well, too bad if it’s not.”

He squeezed out more shower gel and moved on to Casey’s left arm, gently massaging the dewy skin with his soapy hands.

“I had sex with Chris,” Casey said. His voice was flat. “I went over to his house and we started making out. He asked me what I wanted and I said ‘fuck me’. I said that…”

Zeke said nothing. He felt slightly light-headed.

“Then his friends came over. We went out to the club and... I had…s-sex with his friends.”

Now the right arm, thought Zeke. There was nothing in the world except for that arm, the skin over it. He lathered and stroked, lathered and stroked, his eyes following after his hands.

“Steve and I did it in the alley. And Joel and me…we danced and I could feel how… h-hard he was --- “

Casey’s voice choked for a second, because of how hard Zeke was gripping his arm.

“Sorry,” Zeke said, releasing him and moving on to scrub his chest and back.

“I gave the other guy --- can’t remember his name --- gave him a blowjob in the men’s bathroom.”

“I see.”

“He said ‘let’s do it again sometime’ and I…”

“I see,” Zeke gritted.

“Ran away. All I could think of was calling…calling you.”

“Lucky me.”

“I’m not sorry.”

“I didn’t think you were. You better have used condoms, though, or you will be sorry.”

Casey just closed his eyes. “Yes.”

At this small bit of good news, Zeke would have liked to have felt relieved; he supposed he was, in some distant place. He splashed water on Casey’s chest, then said, “Get up on your knees, please.”

Casey obeyed. Zeke began at the front, using twice as much gel and washing his cock and balls with sublime gentleness. It was good, a kind of freedom to be so gentle with someone with whom he might have been so angry. This was a new addiction in the making; he could hear the faint siren call of it, growing in strength.

He hadn’t expected Casey to get hard since from the sound of it he had come plenty of times already tonight but suddenly the cock in Zeke’s hands was thickening. He didn’t let any reaction show on his face. He lathered underneath, stroking down in between Casey’s legs, around his buttocks and back up several times. He noticed that Casey had started to breathe a bit hard and was trying to spread his knees as much as he could. After three or four times, he went all the way and inserted a soapy finger in Casey’s opening. He didn’t hear a sound, but he saw the way Casey moved, bucking a little.

Zeke put a hand on Casey’s shoulder. Holding him still, he methodically cleaned him inside and out, watching for indications of discomfort. The faces that Casey was making could have been read either way. The opening was still a bit loose from earlier, Zeke couldn’t help noticing. The thought came into him that Casey could probably take his cock right now.

“Sit down,” he whispered, trying to breathe through the ache that had taken residence in him, making him feel desperately weak in some places and rigidly ready in others.

Casey seemed to be crying again as he sat down. Zeke cupped his hands, lifting the water repeatedly, rinsing off his body.

“Stand up.”

Casey did as he was told. Zeke wrapped him in a towel and half-lifted, half-guided him out, toweling his entire body, kneeling down to get his lower half. At eye level, Casey’s erect cock was hard to miss but Zeke ignored it. He took Casey’s hand and drew him, still naked, back into the bedroom.

There was a moment when they both stood there, waiting. Zeke knew Casey was waiting for him to decide.

It wasn’t a situation that lent itself to analysis. The moment was already fully grasped, known to Zeke in its entirety. What came to him could only be called intuition, and something more. It had nothing to do with ordinary notions of right and wrong, only what was right between them. And maybe it had something to do with a prophetic voice, a voice that sounded uncannily like Nicholas Cage, like an over-the-top actor just standing here in the room with them, shouting in Zeke’s ear: Love don’t make things right... It ruins everything... It breaks your heart... The stories are bullshit!

And he knew the truth of that, and that he could choose to love where he fought to make it all like he expected it to be, or he could choose to love with full acceptance of the fucked-up-edness of it all.

It was a perfectly thorough knowing of something, and the other thing that he absolutely understood was this: If he didn’t take Casey now, stake his claim now, he would lose him. It wasn’t possession, this time. It was understanding who Casey was, ultimately.

He moved towards the bed, still holding Casey’s hand, and it was all the prompting that Casey needed. He lay down on the bed, on his stomach. Zeke moved up behind him and gripped his hips, pulling his lower end up into a kneeling position, making his ass fully accessible, and Casey went willingly, willingly assuming that position, bracing himself with his head lying sidewise against his arm flat on the bed, his other hand splayed flat. His ass was raised at an extreme angle, and Zeke spared half a second to think that maybe this wasn’t going to be the most comfortable for him, but then he didn’t care. He unbuttoned, unzipped and stood up to kick off his jeans.

There was no stopping, though, no holding back. He knelt on the bed and positioned himself. He opened Casey and thought he saw the red, raw evidence of other men having been there, and it was there that he lost his mind.

He took hard hold of himself and Casey, and then he was inside, his cock sinking all the way into Casey’s ass in one thrust. Casey uttered a sound between a grunt and a gurgle, and flattened his back, wriggling slightly like he was thinking about protesting. Zeke gave his ass a little slap. “Shush!” he ordered, and Casey stilled, made a little affirmative sound in his throat.

Zeke started out with a kind of mental clarity he had never known before in his life; it gave him the power and control of a porno god; he was taking his time fucking, withdrawing almost and then plunging in, doing slowly and then even more slowly, watching clinically as Casey was reduced to incoherent little mumbles and grunts.

Now he launched into the abyss, his eyes closing, mind shutting down. Casey’s body gripped Zeke’s impossible tight and hot, soaking him, pulling him. He held Casey’s hips in both his hands, occasionally bending over him to nip the back of his shoulders, to smooth his lips along the nape of his neck but mostly just fucking, holding him steady beneath him. Listening to Casey’s noises, little moans and half-whines. Every stroke was a pulse of vindication, a bolt of everything…love, hate, anger, tenderness. He didn’t have to try to tell Casey or even show him anymore. Casey had been taught, he knew. He knew... he knew... and Zeke was gone blind with the pleasure of Casey’s knowing, thrusting harder and harder until he finally came like an apocalypse.

He fell over to his side and pulled Casey with him, curling his legs around him.

Casey was a sweaty, sodden, sobbing mess, the cleansing of not half an hour ago completely undone. He kept trying to turn in Zeke’s arms but was still pinned by him and couldn’t manage it so Zeke shushed him and removed his cock, finally helping him to turn to face him, and Casey pressed his face in the crook of Zeke’s neck without a word.

That moment passed, though, and many more like it, and still Zeke didn’t speak. He didn’t know what could be said. In the aftermath he wasn’t so sure that he hadn’t done wrong and still he didn’t care. He spotted the afghan he had bought for Casey, crumpled at the foot of the bed. He pulled it up, hating to dislodge his warm, slippery bundle of flesh but he had to. He covered them both.

But he had broken the stillness. He sensed that Casey was ready, and so he asked, “Okay?”

“Yeah,” Casey breathed.

“Do you…can you say what happened?”

Casey was quiet. Zeke felt his eyelashes brushing his neck like tiny wings but they felt like blows of concrete. His throat suddenly started to ache.

“They didn’t hurt you?” Zeke strangled.

“No.”

“Really?”

“I just got upset.”

“About what?”

“After I…I had…well, I sucked off Chris’ friend…I can’t even remember his fucking name and there was this…” Casey’s voice shook. “…this moment when I licked my lips and…and…”

“What?” Zeke whispered, stroking his hair while inwardly he raged at those fuckers who looked at Casey and saw someone they could take advantage of. The fact that Casey would have sought them out, invited them, done everything but throw himself under their feet, made them no less like scum in his eyes.

“I was tasting his cum and I knew I would go b-back tomorrow for more, I can’t stop myself…”

“Shh…”

“But I --- I w-was --- there’s never --- enough --- never enough, Zeke.”

“There is, “ Zeke contradicted quietly.

“I don’t think so. I’m --- like your mom said --- like you said ---“

“Shut up.”

“What?”

“You know better... you don’t say my mother was right.”

Casey stopped talking, and Zeke knew with a cascading self-satisfaction that he had the ability to think through this. He hadn’t been able to think for months but his consciousness was clear and limitless now.

“You’re allowed to go nuts once in a while,” he said. “It isn’t going to always be like this. You aren’t always going to be like this.”

“What if I am?”

“You won’t.”

“How do you know?”

“Because I do. And also because I say so.” He knew even as he said it that he could be in trouble with that kind of nonsense, but Casey’s response was simply to sigh and snuggle closer to Zeke’s neck, mumbling something he couldn’t quite hear. “What was that?”

“You held me in…”

Zeke wasn’t entirely sure what that meant, only that it was important to reinforce the truth of it. Intuitively, he understood that he had done what was required. “It’s what I do,” he half-bluffed.

“’m tired, Zeke.”

“Me too.”

“…tired…not being with you.”

It was very important not to interfere with this emotional trend, Zeke thought. He didn’t dare comment, or alter his touch, or tense up.

“But I’m not ready to…” Casey’s lips were still moving softly against Zeke’s skin, barely audible, barely conscious. “…to stop…I still need to know…things.”

Zeke knew that Casey would detect the slight hitch in the movement of Zeke’s hands so he made a point of continuing his soothing motions. He did not react, because reacting was what he had done every other time up until now, Casey would expecting it. Counting on it, in fact.

But a moment came when you could not do exactly the same thing as you had always done, whether it was from exhaustion, surrender, or an instant of unfettered realization.

“Okay,” Zeke said.

“Okay?”

“You’re not ready to stop.”

And Casey made contented noises, shifting and squirming a little like any tired little beast getting comfortable for sleep. Moments later, it seemed that he was out, asleep. Zeke held him as close as it was physically possible to hold a person who was not actually yourself, and he contented himself with the thought: No fucking way is it okay. It was enough to know it in his own head. With that, he was able to sleep.

He woke up with a distinct awareness that something was amiss, even though there was nothing immediately wrong. Casey was still pressed against him, they were both sticky and a little sweaty, it was morning and he had slept the night through. Nothing should have been wrong.

A slight turn of his head later, he knew what it was: They were being watched. The bedroom door was open just enough to fit through a pair of eyes, and Sasha was in the room from the shoulders up, peering at them.

Zeke jumped slightly; casting a swift glance over himself and Casey, he ascertained that there was nothing showing that shouldn’t have been. They were a tangle of arms, legs and sheets, but they were mostly covered.

“What?” Zeke hissed.

“What?” Sasha echoed. He stuck his neck out further and said, “Did you just say ‘what’ to me?”

“Yeah.”

“No.”

“No?”

“You don’t get to say ‘what’. I’m the one who says it…like ‘what’ the fuck is going on here! I get home last night and the car’s in the back and I know you’re in here but you’re not on the couch so where else could you be? Hmm, I wonder. And I wait all night to look and now here I am and what the hell?”

Casey jerked and mumbled, “Whah…?”

Sasha’s eyes bulged.

“Hey,” Zeke said, and tickled his arm.

Casey scowled, brushing furiously at the spot on his arm. “I’m sleeping, Zeke.”

“I know, but the thing is… I think Sasha’s a little freaked out because last he heard you were going out with some Chris dude and now…here we are.”

Casey breathed heavily, making a sound like a tired sigh, and then untangled himself. He started to sit up, groaned, and lay back. With eyes closed he said, “Sasha…I called Zeke last night. He came over.”

“So I see.”

“He spent the night.”

Sasha sucked in a breath, no doubt to retort something about the obviousness of it all. At the last second he said, “Is this a good thing?”

Zeke waited, because obviously this was not his question to answer.

This time, Casey’s attempt to sit up was successful. Zeke could see that he was in some discomfort but he was being careful not to vocalize it. “Yes,” Casey said softly. “It’s a good thing.”

Sasha blinked and swallowed visibly. And again. Then he said, “Okay. Breakfast is in ten…just eggs and toast, that’s all you get!” He glared at Zeke as though defying him to argue for more.

“Sounds good,” Zeke replied, and it did. It sounded very good.

The door closed.

Zeke twisted to look at Casey, who drawn up his knees and had rested his head on top of folded arms. He was a bit worn around the edges, and Zeke thought he was absolutely exquisite at that moment with his hair sticking up and a pillow crease on one side of his face. His mouth looked bruised still.

“Sore?” Zeke asked.

Casey nodded and winced. “My whole body feels like it’s been twisted into a pretzel. My back hurts, my ass hurts… even my feet hurt for some reason.”

“Serves you right,” Zeke told him.

Casey blinked as though he actually possessed some shame about it, his cheeks colouring slightly.

“We should have a quick shower,” Zeke suggested.

“Um…”

“Yes?”

“Can I take mine alone?”

Zeke stomped on the twinge those words inspired. “Of course.”

Suddenly, Casey smiled. He leaned in and kissed Zeke on the nearest bit of skin he could reach, which turned out to be Zeke’s chin, and slinked off the bed with far too much grace for a person who’d apparently been reamed out the night before. He grabbed a towel off the floor and went towards the door --- and stopped. Turning, he stood there naked and seemingly devoid of self-consciousness. He said, “I figured out something.”

“Oh, yeah?” Zeke said, fighting to be casual.

“Yeah.”

“You gonna tell me?”

Casey nodded. He stared straight at Zeke with eyes that had become a complete mystery, solid and impenetrable. “It’s different with you.”

“Different.”

“Yeah.”

“Can you expand on that, maybe?”

Casey considered that. Then: “No.”

Zeke decided to stare at the wall. “Okay.”

“I’m being honest, Zeke. You want me to be honest, right?”

“Sure.”

He waited for Casey to leave, and thought he had left but then Casey’s voice said, “When I say different, I mean…no one makes me feel the way you do.”

Zeke’s head snapped back in Casey’s direction, only to catch an electrifying glimpse of his backside as he went through the door. He lay back, putting his hands under his head. After a few seconds, he started to hum, thinking about Casey washing himself, hands moving over velvet skin mere feet away from Zeke, and it occurred to him that today, for right now, he was happy.

 

 

 

 

 

Sent: June 18, 2002. 11:40 a.m.

RE:RE: dying

sorry to make you worry. i would have written back sooner except sasha made breakfast and i had to call stokely and then once Casey left for his usual morning routine sasha had to grill me so i didn’t get back here until now. so yeah, i spent the night at casey’s. a lot happened, i dont know if i can really explain it but i feel pretty fucking alright.

 

June 18, 2002. 12:01 p.m.

RE:RE:RE: dying

You spent the night with Casey? Does this mean you’re back together or was it just sex?

 

June 18, 2002. 12:12 p.m.

RE:RE:RE:RE dying

that’s just what sasha asked me and the answer is, i don’t know. i don’t know and honestly, i don’t care. can’t we just leave it at that for now?

 

June 18, 2002. 12:17 p.m.

RE:RE:RE:RE:RE dying

Oh, honey. Does that seem wise? I’m asking this for your sake, you know, not to be a negative nelly.

 

June 18, 2002. 12:30 p.m.

RE:RE:RE:RE:RE: RE: dying

Don’t worry about me. I’m fine. No, I don’t know exactly what it means but for right now I don’t care. That’s something new for me, not expecting everything to be perfect. Just let me go with it, okay?


	3. Chapter 3

So good on his thirsty skin, the water. It’s not-cool-not-warm, smooth and yet a little sharp. The resistance tells him he has strength, that he can push and pulse through it. There is no battle here, no boundary to be fought over. He is quiet and sleek, gliding in the silence, and sometimes he hates that he has to lift his head take air. Sometimes he thinks he won’t ever leave here. He can submerge himself and not come up, staring at an artificial, oceanic world through the distortion of his goggles.

In this underside-world, bodies flailed and thrashed, yet remained oddly balletic. But out where people breathed and walked and stumbled, the pool had to keep its schedule, and as much as Casey wished it wasn’t so, he couldn’t stay here. He would meet with Yves as usual, with his fingers still slightly pruned, the smell of chlorine on his skin, and she would not even think to say anything about it other than to congratulate him on keeping to an exercise program.

He started another length, reveling in the feel of the water against his face with every face-down plunge, and the taut burn in his shoulders and arms.

Occasionally, Yves seemed to get an inkling that there were things in his mind that were foreign to her, would always be foreign. Just as promised, she wouldn’t ask about those things. She concerned herself with the things that he needed to understand if he was to function. So did he now, treating those things with the same intent dedication that he used to treat high school. It was entirely possible that he was her best patient. When he’d suggested as much to her, she’d laughed. Eventually, he persuaded her to say that he was doing good work although he shouldn’t count himself as a graduate of psychotherapy just yet.

It wasn’t something he needed to be told. So maybe he’d gotten through an entire course at the university, but it was fortunate for him that they didn’t take attendance in college, or he would have been sunk. He’d missed at least half of the classes. There were mornings when he would wake up and just knew he couldn’t get there on time. Other days, he’d gotten all the way to the door of the classroom and then turned back. Once or twice, he’d even gone in and sat down — he always was the first person in the room — and when the other students started to arrive, he started to panic. Sometimes he could overcome the panic. Sometimes his nerve broke, and he ran.

Another length. He was past his usual fifty now.

The worst had been the time he’d run out in the middle of the class. Huddled in the hall, the last thing he’d expected was to see one of his fellow students appear there, inquiring after him. They weren’t even his fellow students, really, since he knew none of them and never spoke to them. But this girl whom he only knew as the one who sat two rows in front of him and raised her hand frequently, this girl, she just showed up in the hallway. “You okay?” she’d wanted to know.

A person couldn’t exactly tell something he didn’t know himself. He’d managed to answer her with something, and she had suggested that he could come back in when he was ready, but he was too embarrassed. He had just managed to say thank you and run off to the coffee shop where he met Zeke. Zeke, who was always available for Casey, Zeke who had chosen his courses so that he would be able to meet Casey but still with an hour gap between them... and even after doing this routine so many times he found himself feverishly running the numbers... Casey’s class ran from 9:00 to 10:00, three times a week, while Zeke had back-to-back hours until eleven. With that hour to fill, Casey had taken to hiding, sometimes in the library, sometimes in the coffee shop.

That time it had been the coffee shop, albeit much of the wait was accomplished by recourse to the bathroom, sitting on the toilet seat, pacing the small space between urinals and stalls, ducking again into a stall if someone came in. The staff knew him, some of them, and knew he was strange but harmless. They had left him alone to wait...until eleven. Eleven, the magic number. Eleven, when Zeke walked in and suddenly everything became secure and familiar. But it wasn’t the normal and bearable sixty minutes but almost two hours that day, and by the time Zeke had found him he’d been a mess, barely able to stop himself from crawling into Zeke’s lap.

Nothing much was embarrassing anymore, not that he’d had a whole lot of dignity to begin with. Crying in public, running down hallways like a spooked cat, making ten trips to the coffee shop bathroom in a half-hour…yup. None of it could make him so much as squirm. Of course, it helped when Zeke was there, ready to employ his brilliant verbal viciousness against anyone who so much as looked at Casey sideways.

Soon after one of these episodes, much earlier in the term, Casey had gotten an email from the professor expressing concern for him, and he saw no reason not to be completely honest. He had replied, explaining his situation as straightforwardly as possible. He’d learned that blunt honesty was the shortest distance between a potential new anxiety and heading it off before it got started. Yeah, the truth could be a real stress reliever. So he had no trouble informing Professor Schwartz that he had an anxiety disorder and that he often had difficulty being in public but he had no intention of being late with any of his assignments. He left out the part about having chosen this course on avant-garde aesthetics because there were no written exams, no times when he absolutely had to be present — only essays.

With relief, he received the reply that the professor understood and hoped he would continue to do his best to make it to class. He had gone to Yves lamenting yet again of how pathetic he was, how much a failure as a student and a human being, and of course Yves repeated what should have been his mantra by then:

“Do a mood log, Casey.”

He’d done a million mood logs. Okay, maybe not a million, but a whole fuck of a lot. They always demonstrated that he was actually making sterling progress and if he was really honest with himself and not being a drama queen, he knew it. He hated doing the mood logs but he had learned that they worked.

The water was still so good, so relaxing. He would do one more length — well, maybe two, to get back to the end of the pool with the ladder. It was either that or flop out ungracefully onto the tiles like a...well, a fish out of water.

Breathe. In, and then he was under again, breathing out, listening to the strange and wonderful liquid silence shot through with the motion of other creatures. Lifting his head, breathing again. Breathing out. There was no fucking logical reason why he shouldn’t be able to inhale this stuff...just the entire order of nature, and that pissed him off a bit. If nature was going to make a person strange, why not make them really strange...? Give them lungs that could process oxygen from water as well as air.

Basically, nature could really suck.

Oh, what he could have done with the ability to shape-change, if he could have just become whatever he wanted to be — with just a thought. One thought, and – bang – he could be someone new, not this thing crawling, scrabbling for transformation. Sometimes he thought that every cell in his body had learned anxiety, was just — soaked — with fear, and until he had, through cellular reinvention, mitosis, shedding, whatever... Until he had a completely new body with all new cells, he would keep on being Casey Connor, Scared of Everything.

Of course there had been no reason to be scared when a guy who seemed perfectly nice asked him out. He knew that in his head, and still he had reacted...like, in the very last week of classes when one of his male class-mates had approached him. It had been one of his better days, and the hour lecture had been done and Casey was zipping up the folder where he kept his notes, thinking about the paper he had to finish, when it happened.

“Hi,” said a stranger.

He was so far from accustomed to having people speak to him in this room, he had whipped around, just barely restraining himself from throwing his body into the nearest corner since the door was far out of reach. He tried to echo the greeting but it came out more like “Huh…?”

“My name’s Andrew,” the boy had said, and smiled. He had Bollywood good looks — incredible dark eyes and glossy hair, gorgeous skin, fine features. He was just slightly geeky, with retro-style horn-rimmed glasses, but it worked. While he was the kind who didn’t say much in class, but Casey had noticed that when he did it was always incredibly intelligent.

When Casey failed to reply, Andrew had prompted, “How about you?”

“Wh-what?”

“Your name?”

“C-Casey.”

“Cool.” Andrew nodded, and they both let their eyes dart this way and that, avoiding looking at each other, while Casey wondered what this smart, handsome guy wanted with him. Then Andrew blurted, “So…I was kinda wondering if you wanted to get some coffee.”

Casey blinked at him.

“Okay,” Andrew said. “Never mind.”

He started to turn away but Casey said quickly, “W-wait.”

Andrew stopped, looking —- hopeful, maybe, but Casey couldn’t be sure. It seemed like hopeful but he didn’t know if he should trust himself. After all, he had been a lump in the back of the room for the past three months while Andrew had been up there somewhere near the front and as near as Casey could tell he didn’t have eyes in the back of his head which meant he could only know Casey as That Freak Who Kept Bolting For No Good Reason.

“You want to have coffee…with me?”

Andrew looked pained. “You don’t know ‘til you ask.”

“’m…I’m sorry. I don’t think…”

“Okay. See you around.”

Before Casey could reconsider or make any further utterances, Andrew was out the door. Casey stumbled out just moments after and regretfully watched him go down the hall. The movement of shoulder muscles beneath his shirt was a poignant reminder of what he’d just done himself out of with his stupid, frightened ways.

He had been such an idiot, a ridiculous cowardly thing. He had told himself so, privately, out loud, in his journal, and to Yves.

Her answer, as always: “Do a mood log, Casey.”

So he did a mood log, which revealed that however disappointed he was in himself, he knew he had accomplished a great deal by finishing that course. He had a baseline of data on the subject of What Casey Connor Could Handle, and now he was determined to resume school full-time in the fall. Even if he missed a pile of classes, he could still be in school. He would be doing something —something else with his brain. His parents would be thrilled, Sasha would be ecstatic, even Zeke would be happy about it. And the next time someone asked him on a date, maybe he wouldn’t —

Fuck that. He didn’t want to date. He didn’t especially want to spend time with anyone but Zeke or Sasha or Stokely. If only he could get what he needed without social interaction, but it seemed to him that even the male of the species tended to need a pretext to say hello before they got off.

He’d been in the water too long now; he was going to be late.

Casey pulled himself reluctantly out of the pool and padded on the cement towards the men’s locker room, shivering a little. He had to work hard not to let his shoulders hunch as he got nearer to that room. It was always a battle not to hug the walls as men of every conceivable size and just one size — larger-than-him — went about their own physical activities. He didn’t think it was his imagination how often they looked at him — with interest, with speculation, even with no particular expression, just noticing the passing of a ninety-pound weakling. Fair was fair, though, because he looked at them. He looked at them a lot, always careful about it. Locker rooms were perilous, overflowing with sights for the eye to feast upon and an equal degree of threat. He watched men checking each other out, pretending they weren’t, comparing, assessing and admiring, holding themselves taut. It was so ridiculous and so ready, and he almost loved it even if sometimes it was all he could do to remain at his locker with his back to the rest of the room, his skin crawling, and not flee.

Oh, shit. Shit, fuck...

The Nordic God was between him and the entrance to the locker room; over six feet tall of shaggy blond hair and sculpted muscles, he would normally appear at the poolside in a tiny Speedo. His hairless torso boasted a golden, perfect tan, adorned only by a white bone necklace. He probably climbed mountains or jumped out of airplanes when the pool wasn’t open. His teeth would flash a splendid white every time he and Casey ran into each other, which seemed to be often.

“Whoa!” exclaimed the God.

Casey put his head down and tried to scurry around him. After several unsuccessful tries to get around him, Casey looked up and realized that he was being actively blocked. On the spot, he was trembling, from fear and something other than fear. “Wh-what?” he stammered. “What?”

“Sorry. Just being a goof.”

“Stop it,” Casey snapped, his nerves driving his mouth. Helpless to stop himself, he let his eyes train on God’s crotch, which was nearly at fucking eye-level for him anyway.

The Nordic God had started to chuckle. “I’m sorry.”

“Why are you laughing?”

“Habit, I guess.” Another man pushed past them, giving them a look, and they both pressed to the wall on Casey’s left. He was about to dart into the space that had opened up to the God’s other side, when the man said, “Hold on a sec.”

“I have to go.”

The God moved forward, inexorably pushing Casey back into the pool area. Casey folded his arms over his chest, the better to cover it up if his heart happened to open a hole in his ribcage. He watched as the God struck a casual pose, no doubt ready to move quickly should Casey make a break for the locker room.

“I’ve seen you around here quite a bit.”

“Yeah?” Casey returned, shifting his weight.

“My name’s Chris.”

“Yeah.”

“What’s your name?”

“Casey.”

“That’s your name?”

“Yeah,” Casey said, trying to break down that question into usable parts. He couldn’t.

Chris laughed again.

“What?”

“Just the look on your face. Like, why would anyone ask such a stupid question.” Very subtly — they were in public, after all — Chris shifted his stance in Casey’s direction, conveying a kind of interest that Casey recognized at once. “You’re quite a swimmer.”

“I don’t know…”

“Did you ever take lessons?”

“A bit, in school.” Casey caught a glimpse of the clock on the wall. 9:30. He was going to be late for Yves, but he couldn’t seem to move his feet, they had grown into the cement floor. “I…I’m sure I’m not doing it the way I should.”

“You do it your way. You’re not planning on going to the Olympics, right?”

Casey shook his head, and then, unable to think of any other way to continue this encounter, he blurted, “What — what do you want?”

Chris chuckled again, and this time it went straight to Casey’s groin. “Just — wondered if you wanted to grab some coffee later…or maybe a beer?”

There it was, the open acknowledgement of what they had been doing with the smiles and the glances, and suddenly, Casey wasn’t all that nervous anymore. At least now he could be relatively sure that Chris hadn’t pulled him aside so he could pound on him for checking him out all those times. But he wasn’t not-nervous either. After all, he would have to see Zeke later — this afternoon, probably, or...or...well, if not tonight, tomorrow. He would have to look right at Zeke and talk to him with the memory of this conversation, this question and its answer. And what was he to do about the fact that Zeke would expect —?

You can’t hold all your time open for Zeke.

Yves’ voice. He wasn’t sure if it was a memory or just a what-would-Yves-think moment. He heard her voice a lot, regardless. He had a little copy of Yves inside him, constantly talking to him. She would want him to say yes, especially after his freak out when Andrew asked him out that time. She would say that he needed to explore his options and take advantage of opportunities and that always worrying that Zeke would be upset if pre-empted was a way of not taking responsibility for things. He was entitled to go out on a date. He was entitled to do things without Zeke, entitled to kiss other men, to —

“Okay,” he blurted.

The smile that Chris brought forth was blinding, unparalleled by anything Casey had seen in all his trips to the pool so far. “Excellent,” he said. “When?”

“Um…I don’t know.”

“I know. Some friends and I were planning on going out tonight for a few drinks. Why don’t you join us?”

The words seemed to vibrate in his head. He wondered if he might not actually be spinning. Drinks. Tonight. A few friends.... And beer meant a bar. A bar that could be any size, from a hole in the wall that held maybe fifty people to a club that held a thousand. Drinks. Tonight. A few friends... Tonight meant not much time to adapt to the idea, and a few friends…a few friends meant other people.

Casey didn’t realize how long he’d been quiet until Chris said, “Okay, maybe not.”

Fury burst in Casey’s chest — fury at himself. He wheezed, “Yes, yes…I’ll come…”

“You don’t have to…”

“I want to.”

Chris’ brows drew together. “Okay,” he said with a shrug. “Why don’t you come to my apartment first, that’s where we’re all meeting. 2245 Secord, Apartment 560. Say at 8:00 o’clock tonight? My friends aren’t coming until nine so you and I’ll have time to get to know each other.”

“Okay.”

“You’ll remember the address?”

“Yes...er...is there a bus stop...?”

“Sure. Just take the Fifth Street bus to Secord, get off at the corner. You just have to walk a few blocks.”

“Got it.”

Chris smiled again, turning Casey’s gut to liquid. “Good.”

And he moved so that Casey could pass.

There was no time for a shower. He was already going to be late, and he didn’t want to face that particular form of stress today so it was as basic as towel the hair, throw on t-shirt and jeans and hurry out of the locker room.

There had been a time when he would run to Yves’ office, out of fear of being stopped, or worse, touched. For some time now, he had been walking, not running.

Today though, he was running, unable to prevent himself from colliding with people and being okay with it as long as they didn’t try to fucking grab him or anything. His heart pounded, but in a good way. He liked being healthy. He liked being able to move and even run without collapsing. It was good to know that if he needed to, he could flee an entire team of football players. Today he didn’t need to but he didn’t want to miss his entire session, that was all. He wasn’t panicky, wasn’t…and he was fine with being on the street. They could all be aliens, yeah, but he was alien too, he was them and they were him, and in fact, they were his. They wouldn’t want to hurt him.

Back in February, he had walked around muttering a lot. “I am her…I am the alien queen…alien queen, alien queen.” No one knew but him and the millions of strangers who thought he was a nut. Not even Yves. He had told her he was scared, he had told her he couldn’t bear to be touched but he didn’t tell her the stuff that Thomas had taught him. He didn’t tell her how he had muttered those words until he didn’t need to, until they were inside him. Sometimes when he looked at people these days, he would indulge in the belief that they were all his subjects, that they all knew him exactly for what he was just like he knew them, and because of that they would part before him, making way for him.

Not today, though. Despite his “sorry…sorry…excuse me” and his dodging — once right across the path of a woman about to get into a cab, shouting, “Sorry!” — there came a moment when he was grabbed suddenly by an older man.

He did not like to be touched, not by strangers anyway — oh, hell, pretty much not by anyone, and he most especially didn’t like being grabbed, didn’t the world at large get that? He had thought this was understood. He pulled himself up and said indignantly, “Hey — “

“Dude, you ran into me.”

“Okay, but — ”

“And you almost fell...”

“No,” he argued, yanking his arms out of the man’s grip. Yeah, sure, he almost fell. Okay, he had been off balance but that was because this guy had not been getting out of his way, probably did it on purpose even. See a skinny little geek running down the street, of course it was your fucking duty to the fucking world, to the male species and society at large and fucking nature itself to whale on him a little

The stranger lifted both hands in apology. “Just...try walking, kid.”

“I’m late,” Casey growled.

“Just take it easy, there’re other people on the street here.”

He arrived at Yves’ panting and sweating, ten minutes after nine. Yves took in his hot, sweaty face and heaving chest, and fetched a glass of water for him. “Are you okay?”

“Yeah,” he gulped.

“Count to ten.”

“No…”

“No?”

“Not panicking…just...ran here.”

“Oh,” she said with a faint smile. Going around her desk, she sat and folded her hands. “Why did you run?”

“’m late.”

“That’s true.”

“I got…there was this…guy…”

“Casey. Just take a minute and catch your breath. Why don’t you drink your water?”

He nodded, closing his eyes and forcing himself to slow down his lungs and downed the entire glass, gulping it just as he gulped for air. He thought he might know just how dry Mary Beth had felt all the time on this planet. They must have been so desperately thirsty, odd that they hadn’t chosen a place like Seattle where it rained so often instead of Ohio. But they were in Seattle now, weren’t they? Yeah, they were in Seattle because he was in Seattle —

He tucked away those thoughts and raised his head, signaling that he was ready to begin.

“So why are you late, Casey?”

“Um...okay, there’s this guy at the pool. I don’t think I told you about him.”

“No.”

“He’s…” Casey gulped his first, full helping of air as his body settled. He took a few more long breaths and continued, “I called him the Nordic God in my head because he’s kind of like…”

“A Nordic god?”

“Yeah, he’s tall and blond and beautiful. Every time we saw each other we would nod or smile or something but I thought he was just…I dunno, being polite.”

“Un-huh.”

“He asked me to go out with him.”

“When? Today?”

“Yeah. Just when I was leaving.”

“And what did you say?”

“I said yes.” Casey bounced forward in his chair, sitting right on the edge. “Dr. Yves…I think he wants to fuck me.”

She didn’t react, but then she never did. “Why do you think that?”

“He invited me to come out with him and some friends tonight but he said I should meet him at his apartment first.”

“Ah. And you think that means he wants to have sex before you go?”

“I don’t know!” Casey groaned. “I don’t know these things.”

“Do you think you can trust him?”

Casey shrugged. “Trust him, how?” The fact was, he didn’t know one way or another and he didn’t care. Okay, yes, he did care, he was terrified in fact... but he wasn’t going to not go. Lately, everywhere he looked he saw glistening muscles and cocks straining, and he couldn’t seem to beat off enough times in a given day. Just yesterday Sasha had complained that he seemed to spend more time in the shower than ever and there was never any hot water...

“What do you want from this man, Casey?”

He started to speak, to say exactly what he wanted and nothing more than that. But when he let his mouth fall open, it was just a preamble to falling silent.

“I’m not judging you, Casey. Remember?”

He nodded.

“All I care about is that you do this in a way that’s safe for you, and won’t end up with you being hurt.”

“I know.”

“So how do we make sure that you’re safe?”

“I…I can tell Sasha.”

“Okay.”

“He’s not going to like it. We were supposed to go out to the clubs on Saturday, he got the night off and everything.”

“Well, you can still do that, right?”

“Yeah, but...see, I asked him to help me with this and he didn’t want to but then he agreed. He’s going to be upset at me doing this on my own now.”

“I don’t think it’s an all or nothing situation, Casey. He’s willing to go with you to a bar, to help you get comfortable, and he should still be willing to do that, right?”

Casey couldn’t help but give Yves a look that suggested the many things they both knew about the world of Casey-and-Sasha. Like, just because Sasha should be okay with a thing didn’t mean he would be, and that was not even to enter into the permutations of Zeke.

“All right,” Yves allowed. “Tell me.”

“Sasha doesn’t like the idea of me having sex at all,” Casey grumbled. “He’s worse than my dad.”

“But you told me he was going to try to be accepting and help you be safe.”

“Yeah. But this…”

“Maybe I can see how he’d be concerned. This is potentially dangerous, Casey.”

“I dunno...”

“It is. Do you know anything about this man?”

“No.”

“Do you know his name?”

“Yeah, it’s Chris.”

“His last name?”

“No…but I know his address. I could tell Sasha the address.”

“All right. And what else could you do?”

“Um…I’ll tell Sasha I’m going to phone him at a certain time. I’ll have my phone with me and make sure it’s charged.”

“All right.”

“I’ll bring condoms.”

“Good,” Yves replied firmly, nodding. “And what if he says ‘oh, we don’t need those’?”

“Then I’ll say we don’t need to fuck.”

“Are you sure that’s what you’ll say?”

Casey rolled his eyes. “Yes. I may be horny but I don’t want to make anymore trips to the doctor than necessary, and I definitely don’t want to die of AIDS.”

“I’m very glad to hear that. Now I have to ask this, Casey. Do you think you can trust him to respect what you want?”

“I’m not going to want him to stop.”

“I’m not so sure, Casey. As far as I know, you still don’t like to be surprised by a pat on the back, and you haven’t been on a date or any other kind of…er, rendezvous…in a number of months.”

Casey bit his lip. “Well…”

Here was that honesty thing again. As much as he liked the anti-stress properties of the truth, there were simply things that were too difficult to tell, things that he preferred to keep in his head. He’d noticed that things like that might sometimes feel more like a bad dream than a memory, and talking about stuff could make it more real, and thus totally ruin it. Like being a part of her...her actual remains here on planet earth. No one would ever know about that, for if they did he would have to suddenly put that under the category of nonsense or delusion. Things that weren’t spoken about didn’t have to be right or wrong. They were just themselves.

“Casey?” Dr. Yves pressed.

“Um...”

“Yes...?”

“Okay,” he sighed. “There’s something I haven’t told you.”

“Un-huh.”

“But I know I’m ready to do this, Dr. Yves...Can’t we just leave it at that?”

“That’s your call, Casey. It was always your call. But what’s this thing you haven’t told me?”

“ It’s just…I think I’m ready because...well, I know I won’t be too scared.”

“Why is that?”

“I already had a bit of a thing with a guy.”

Yves brows went up, the only appreciable reaction from her. “This is a surprise.”

He shrugged.

“When did this happen?”

“About…um, a couple of weeks ago, when I went with Sasha to Wisconsin.”

“Will you tell me about it?”

Putting his head back a month ago, to that particular episode, made for a slight twinge of guilt. Well, maybe more than a twinge.

God, he hated telling the truth sometimes.

 

It was possible to be right in the middle of something and still find it a mystery. Casey didn’t know how a person went from being terrified by the prospect of a short trip to Los Angeles, in Zeke’s company no less, to easily agreeing to go to Wisconsin. Wisconsin involved not only travel, and not only being away from Zeke, but travel without Zeke to a funeral, and not just any funeral. It was Sasha’s father, and from the moment Sasha told him, Casey had began worrying about how to figure out what Sasha needed. And how to give it to him.

See, Sasha was a tricky one, in that he gave the impression of not being tricky. You would think that he would just fall on your shoulder grieving…but he didn’t, not at first. It took him a while to admit just how much his father’s death affected him, and that was because even while urging everyone else to go all out with their emotions, he was very careful with those emotions that pertained to his own life.

It was scary enough that Sasha would need Casey’s support though this because Casey didn’t know if he could ever be any good at supporting other people rather than being supported himself — but then Sasha asked Casey to come with him. Casey just knew that he could do it; that wasn’t the issue. Specific situations could unnerve him, but the general situation…no problem.

He just couldn’t figure how or when that had happened.

There was, of course, the problem of Zeke. Casey saw Zeke every day, Zeke made sure of it. Sometimes Casey would wish, silently and desperately, for Zeke to skip a night, just so he could see what it would be like to spend an entire evening alone. But no…Zeke would come over any time during the daylight hours and not leave until some time after sunset. And Casey was content with that…mostly. He just…kinda wanted to try being on his own for a bit.

And then, Wisconsin happened. He didn’t let on, he didn’t even dare hint to Sasha, how much he wanted to go. It made him feel guilty because it was a terrible thing for Sasha to have to go through and he really was trying to figure out what Sasha needed. It didn’t take Casey long to figure out that Sasha just wanted to pretend that everything was status quo, and that meant letting Sasha worry about him, which Casey was really quite good at.

Of course, like always, the reality wasn’t nearly what he had hoped; it wasn’t so nice when they actually arrived. Pete oozed homophobia — which didn’t bother Casey much, he had long since learned to ignore that kind of stupidity and concentrate on trying to avoid the beatings that came with it, but he knew how it would get to Sasha. Meanwhile, Anne annoyed Casey for no rational reason, and the mother frightened him with her distance. Whatever Casey might have said about his own mom, she was always pretty open about the fact that she loved him.

But Jason...Jason, he liked immediately. There was something entirely recognizable about the guy, and as the only person there who was Casey’s age, he was a natural compatriot. And of course, from the start, Casey sensed that Jason was curious about him.

It was nothing obvious, just an intuition that began to form when they were introduced and the intuition solidified the very first night into more than that. When Casey stepped outside the Johanssen family home, heading to his and Sasha’s rental car and the phone and his conversation with Zeke, he was not expecting to run into anyone. He was startled by the dark silhouette leaning up against the house, wreathed by curls of smoke. For an instant, he imagined that it was Zeke even though that was quite impossible.

He and Jason exchanged a long look, longer than was probably polite. Casey was finding that he had trouble judging things like politeness — or maybe he had just stopped caring. Zeke accused him of staring sometimes but he was pretty sure that Zeke liked it and Casey figured that he always needed data if he had any hope of making sense of people.

At length, Jason nodded at him, and he nodded back.

“Hey, um... Casey?”

“Yeah.”

“My brother, Peter...he’s really okay.”

“I know,” Casey answered.

“He’s just really uptight, but he’s a good guy.”

Casey decided he could safely take a step closer. “Um...where do you go to school?”

“In Madison. How about you?”

“Me?”

“You go to school?”

“In Seattle, yeah — you didn’t know?” The moment he said that, Casey knew it was stupid. Of course it hadn’t come up, since Sasha was completely alienated from his family, and why should Jason know a thing about Casey Connor, room-mate and best-friend to the former Alex Johanssen?

But Jason replied graciously, “It didn’t come up, what with all the arguing.” He grinned, and suddenly it was like a spotlight switched on, blaring on a charming, slightly crooked smile, smart and sad. Casey found himself getting nearer, making a close assessment of Jason’s face. There was just the tiniest hint of Sasha there, just around his mouth and maybe around his eyes. He must look more like his father, because Peter, Anna and Sasha all seemed to closely resemble the mother. “No one ever talks about...Sasha. I didn’t know where he lives. For all I knew, he could have been the bearded lady in a circus.”

Casey giggled; the image was funny enough but he realized with a start that he wanted to laugh at Jason’s jokes, and what the fuck was he doing?

Jason smiled again. “You aren’t my brother’s boyfriend, are you?”

Casey opened his mouth to deny it, and changed his mind. “What makes you think that?”

“Because some of the ways he acts with you...he used to act like that with me. You know, like you’re his younger brother?”

Casey gave it a moment more, then discarded the pretense, hoping that Sasha would forgive him. “Okay, no...I’m not his boyfriend. But we do live together.”

“Why did he lie?”

Casey shrugged. “I guess he assumed that since everyone already thinks the worst...”

“...he should just be as bad as he could be?”

“He was pissed off.”

Jason nodded. “I guess I can see that. You wanna join me for a smoke?”

Casey knew Zeke would be considering his phone call overdue by now — but on the other hand, Zeke could wait. Zeke had to learn that things couldn’t always happen according to his schedule, and he had been, he just tended to forget every once in a while and go assuming a bit too much. Besides, Jason was kind of cute, and Casey was pretty sure he was giving him the curious-straight-boy omigoddoesthismeanI’mgaydoesit glance?

“Nevermind — “ Jason started to say when Casey had been quiet too long.

“I don’t smoke,” Casey blurted. “But — but — we can stand here and talk. I can talk while you smoke, I mean -- except —” I don’t talk and I suck at being social and would you mind carrying the lion’s share of the responsibility for this encounter, oh, and by the way, I’d like to apologize in advance because even if we do manage to strike up a conversation I’ll probably trash any established comfort levels. Okay?

Jason winced slightly. “Okay.”

Casey stepped nearer, shifting his weight around on the uneven, gravel-covered drive, squinting sideways at Jason.

“So,” Jason said. “Um...are you gay, then?”

“Yeah.” Casey could see how Jason was turning pink, even in the faint light. “You?”

“No!” Jason blurted. “No...god.” His expression of embarrassed outrage dropped away quickly, and he fumbled, “Not...not that it bothers me...people being gay. I’m not like my dad was.”

Casey nodded; he figured he’d known that. He figured most guys, tolerant or not, would have that sort of knee-jerk reaction.

“Hey, I’m in college,” Jason added. “It would be terribly unhip not to be open-minded.”

At that, Casey thought he had better let the poor boy off the hook. He laughed, watched as Jason relaxed a bit. This might be okay. He might be able to do this — as in, interact with people, as in simply be there without it turning into a huge drama or an ordinary, run-of-the-mill disaster. “What was your dad like?” Casey asked. Surely that was an appropriate question for conversation.

“That’s a tough one,” Jason said.

Casey wilted and hoped Jason didn’t see it. Fortunately, the light here was oblique at best.

“Sort of...ordinary, I guess. He just did his thing, getting up, going to work, hanging out with the boys — but he just loved machines. He loved taking them apart and figuring them out. He could have been an engineer if he wanted.”

“But then he wouldn’t get to play with the machines himself,” Casey said.

Jason eyed him as though he had just changed shape. “That’s right. You really used to do science?”

“Really. And I shared a room with an engineer. Was your dad nice to — to you?”

“Yeah, he was nice to me.”

“What about Sasha?”

“He never hit him or anything...but I guess...” Jason hesitated. “He wasn’t very nice to him, no.”

Casey just took that in. He tried to envision a teenaged Sasha living miserably in this town, ignored by his father maybe, or maybe the man had called him terrible things…right before he kicked him out of the house. Casey couldn’t begin to imagine how a parent could do that. Frank had never done that to him. He had said things that hurt and Casey had felt despised and permanently cut off, but if he had been in a different state of mind he might not have run away, and then he might not have made that disastrous appearance at Roy’s family home. And for all of Roy’s faults, Casey could well imagine the horror Roy must have felt when he saw Casey there at the absolute worst possible time. You just didn’t do things like that to people.

“God, I can’t get used to that!”

“What?” Casey said, trying to recapture the thread of the conversation. As usual, he’d been entranced by himself, his own problems. It was really a wonder that he had such good friends…especially Sasha. He didn’t deserve a friend like that.

“Calling him Sasha.”

“He’s always been Sasha to me.”

“He’s Alex to me.”

“Alex...” Casey echoed, tasting it. It wouldn’t go down. “Nope, can’t see it.”

The quiet that followed was not entirely easy. Casey felt his heart begin to pound with a non-specific fear, something unattached to any particular idea, and he took a few steps towards the rental car. “Anyway...I need to phone my...phone Zeke.” He stuck his hands in his pockets, reflexively searching for his phone even though he was quite aware that it was in the car.

“Who’s Zeke?”

“My friend.”

“Just your friend, or your ‘friend’?”

There was panic and there was panic. Like there were friends and friends...as if that made any sense and anyway, Casey was entering into the panic of the second kind. He blurted, “Just my friend, why — you interested?”

“Take it easy,” Jason said softly.

At that moment, Casey understood that there was a thing between them. Maybe it was just comfort, because Jason had that thing like Sasha — an instinct for knowing when a person needed solicitude. But he was also not-Sasha, and therefore available for kinds of affection other than hugging and petting. It was instantly fascinating, and therefore scary all over again.

“Go ahead and make your call,” Jason suggested.

Casey went, hating that he felt like he needed to do this, because at this moment there was something not quite right and fucked up about it and he knew that. He wanted to hear Zeke’s voice and wished that he didn’t want to — or need to.

They’d talked about it, he and Yves. She would say — no, she would gently and relentlessly get him to admit that he was over generalizing in making himself feel like a loser for wanting to talk to Zeke for a few minutes. She would get him to say there was no real harm in it seeing as he had the means and the time, and considering that back in December he’d nearly killed himself when Zeke left him for a few days, he was really making remarkable progress. And he shouldn’t punish himself or Zeke right now by refusing to call.

So he called and they spoke for a few minutes. The content wasn’t important; it never was. Zeke was bored now that school was out, Zeke wanted to know how Sasha was and what it was like but when Casey mentioned the time Zeke suddenly noted the time difference and suggested that Casey was tired — which he was. He asked Zeke to call Jerry, just in case Sasha forgot, and they said goodnight, and it was enough and everything, it was just the sound and the cadence of Zeke.

Casey walked back to the house feeling much more steady. He thought he might like to talk to Jason some more, but Jason had gone in.

He didn’t really get another chance to talk to Jason alone until the next night. They talked, they made chitchat, they played with Sasha’s two nieces at the reception. There was a bad time of the day with Casey swamped by the awareness of how badly he had fucked up at the funeral — but Jason nagged him to talk until he surrendered. Plenty of time to feel guilty and depressed later, he reasoned.

Do a mood log, Casey.

Plenty of time to do a mood log later, too.

But he had fucked up. He’d fucked up badly. He hadn’t touched Sasha’s father as some goodbye gesture. He’d truly wanted to know what dead skin felt like, if it was soft or hard, hot or cold. He’d known even as he did it that his curiosity didn’t belong here, but all the same he hadn’t expected that sudden, hateful grip and that momentum, flinging him away. It was the last thing he’d been expecting at that moment, and so he’d freaked, really freaked and said crazy, scary things, the kind of stuff that always got Sasha looking at Casey like he was some stranger.

Really, he hadn’t freaked like that in at least a month, and it was amazing how something so familiar could still take him by surprise... barely able to see, barely able to think of anything except the presence, the male presence hating him and wanting to hurt him and he knew the man would get him, all he could think of was to spout something that would leave its mark on him, there was nothing else. There was no reason to it. There were things to remember and understand after the fact, though…his father’s face when he announced he was gay, Gabe’s grin of satisfaction as he rammed his fist into Casey, the random expressions on strangers’ faces when they perceived his difference…Roy’s rich, decrepit father gazing at him like he was vermin.

Oh, yes, he remembered a lot better than he used to. It wasn’t that he had forgotten things. He just…didn’t remember, before.

Sometimes he was truly astonished by how easy things could be. He would find himself doing something, wondering at the fact that it was possible, and offer a prayer of sorts to the gods who had created drugs. Yves said he was selling himself short, but he didn’t see what could make so much so possible if not the drugs.

But then, there would be a thing like this, and he was knocked all the way back to February, when he had been certain he would explode if anyone laid a finger on him. Or December, when his skills were limited to breathing and sleeping. And suddenly there would be lurking a depression more terrible than anything he’d ever felt because he had thought he was past all this and free of it, except he was not and never would be.

That was the sticking point, wasn’t it? He never would be…whatever. Whatever the standard was, he wouldn’t be it. Straight, normal, sane, fully functional. Not him. Yves would tell him at this point to get a grip, and to do a mood log, but since she wasn’t in Wisconsin and his inner Yves was momentarily silent, it had fallen to Jason and his Johanssen talent for taking care of people.

Right in the middle of their game with the girls when the black funk got the better of Casey, Jason noticed. He must have, for he suddenly stepped in close and said, so quietly, “You’re okay, you know.”

It was right then that Casey decided. He wanted to give Jason something — anything, whatever he wanted. If Jason wanted to use him to find out if he had any gay-ness in his blood, that was fine. If Jason wanted to fuck him and then never, ever say a word about it…that would be okay too. Whatever…and he knew at some point an opportunity would arise, and it did later that night when Jason took him for The Walk.

The path around Butler Lake was easy to follow, mostly flat, and if in thirty minutes Casey had tripped at least five times over rocks and tree roots, it was only because he kept trying to look up and catch a glimpse of the sky. While the trees were fairly close, almost entirely bathing the trail in shadow at certain points, they were standing back enough that the night canopy was visible, and it was a revelation. Casey had never known there were so many stars. Well, he had known, but he had never seen. The dark was clotted with them. Even in Herrington there weren’t so many visible, and Herrington wasn’t so very big. But here in Butler Lake it was like human beings scarcely existed, the sky was so dark.

If only he had his camera — oh, but it would be useless without a tripod in this darkness — but so many, many stars and how many hosted worlds with extra-terrestrial life, millions no doubt. It was simple logic; you’d have to be crazy to think there weren’t aliens out there, even if you didn’t believe that aliens had visited Herrington, Ohio.

He stumbled, and this time nearly fell.

“Jesus!” Jason exclaimed, stopping and turning to address Casey. “And I’m the one who’s wasted here!”

“Are you?” Casey asked, getting his feet under him while a shiver moved over and through him. He let it go and discarded it, making himself forget.

“A little. You okay?”

“Yeah. Just wasn’t watching my feet.”

Jason chuckled, shaking his head. He resumed his forward movement on the trail.

Picking his way a little more carefully, Casey said to Jason’s back, “What?”

“Moony.”

“Huh?”

“It’s a word my father used. Anyone who didn’t keep their eyes on the ground.”

“Oh...” Casey made a point of stepping over a largish dark spot on the path, probably a rock jutting up. “Not to diss your dad...but I’d rather be moony.”

“Yeah. I kinda could see that.”

“Well, which way do you...” Casey saw that Jason had slowed and veered to the left, peering at the darkness there.

“Here we go...”

“Here we go what?” Of course it was silly to suspect Jason was an alien and even if he was — well, Casey was the alien queen after all. Jason couldn’t hurt him. Jason wouldn’t even want to hurt him. “Sasha won’t approve if you get me killed, you know — “

”Oh, shut it. I just want to show you something.”

“Oh, yeah?” Jason seemed to disappear into the black mass of forest. “Jason — ?”

“It’s okay, there’s a path here,” Jason’s voice informed him. “Follow me.”

“Path where?”

“It’s about ten feet, it just goes to the lake, come on...”

Sucking a breath, Casey followed. An opening in the brush materialized, and he could see Jason’s back. He let it lead him for several seconds, until suddenly they were on a tiny, pebble beach. The lake was flat and calmly lapping at the edges of it, and the entire sky, including a half-moon, were on vivid display.

“Oh...” Casey said. “Wow.” Again, his hands and eyes twitched, wishing to capture this on film. He really must practice taking some night shots when he got back to Seattle, not that there would be anything like this in the city with its light pollution. But maybe Zeke would consent to take him on a drive out in the country — or maybe Zeke would let him drive the Mustang out into the country himself? It was possible.

Jason moved, taking a seat on a large boulder with a flat area large enough for two — maybe three. “I used to come here a lot when I was a teenager. Actually, lots of people come here when they’re teenagers.”

Casey couldn’t stop looking up at the sky. “It’s amazing.”

“Um...you can sit here if you...er... I mean...if you want...”

Something in Jason’s tone told Casey it was time to stop looking at the sky. He gazed over at Jason, who was looking to him now with something rather anxious and vulnerable in his face despite the way that he was trying to hide it. In that light from the sky, Jason was startlingly young...a young Sasha, maybe. One of the things that had struck Casey immediately last night in the kitchen was how Jason resembled Sasha, and yet at the same time, didn’t.

Casey came to the rock, the pebbles crunching and shifting underfoot. He sat next to Jason, who cleared his throat and just looked out at the lake. Suddenly, Jason seemed to have nothing to say and Casey was willing to let him go with that until he was ready. Casey just breathed the clean air and watched nature while waiting for nature to take its course.

After a little silence, Jason started to whistle. He stretched down, grabbing a handful of pebbles and began pitching them one by one into the lake, waiting each time for the ripples to dissipate. The bonfire on the main beach was visible, less than a mile across. Sasha was over there somewhere. Casey could have made conversation, talking to Jason about Sasha like they had been doing all day, but he didn’t feel the need. They had covered everything — how Jason had missed Sasha, how he wondered about Sasha’s life and wished they could talk. How he didn’t want Casey to think he was homophobic in any way. And there were the things they didn’t talk about, but Casey knew nevertheless. He knew that Jason was very, very curious, and with some alcohol in his blood he was feeling brave but not yet brave enough.

“So,” Casey said, at length.

“So.”

“Is this, like, a favourite spot?”

“Un-huh.” Jason pitched his last pebble. With nowhere else to go, he just sat. “I...” He paused. “I had my first kiss on this rock.”

“Guy or girl?”

“Gimme a fucking break!” Jason hooted.

Casey shrugged. “Okay, so her name was...”

“Jennifer. What about your first kiss. Guy or girl?”

“Girl...actually.”

Jason looked at him for the first time in a while. “Really?”

“Really.”

“Did you...um...not know...?”

“I knew I was attracted to guys, but I had this obsession with her.” Casey had a moment of inspiration, and added, “I guess you could kind of call it an experiment. We were together for a little while...and it told me what I needed to know.”

“Oh.” Jason was becoming very fidgety. Suddenly, he blurted, “Why did Sasha say that...you know, about me not…er, touching you? Why do you think he would say that?”

“Oh, that’s just Sasha being protective.”

“But...this afternoon when Uncle Ernie...you...you got pretty upset.”

“He caught me by surprise,” Casey said, a little bit sharper than he would have liked. “That’s all.”

Jason said nothing.

“He didn’t need to say that,” Casey found himself adding. “Sasha, I mean.”

“Yeah, of course. I mean...I’m not like Sasha... not that there’s anything wrong with that. I always did wonder what he could have done that was...so bad.”

“Sasha’s a good person,” Casey declared.

“I know.”

“He’s the best person I know, actually.” Casey didn’t look anywhere but at the moon. He said, “If Sasha kisses guys, then kissing guys must be okay.” As if he really thought he needed to say it, as if he didn’t know that Jason was staring at his profile. There was nothing to do now but wait for Jason to make up his mind.

It was a bit of a longish wait, and Casey was just starting to feel a little chilled and a little uncomfortable on that rock when at last Jason muttered something.

“Huh?”

“Do you think, maybe... being gay runs in families?”

“I don’t know,” Casey said. “Maybe sometimes. It doesn’t really matter, does it?”

“Guess not.”

“Why...do you think you take after Sasha?”

“No...at least...I don’t think so...” Jason mumbled. He gazed at Casey, looked hard at him, then away quickly and made a sound that was part-growl and part-groan. “Fuck it!”

The almost-violence of the statement was something of a surprise, and Casey suddenly had certain parts of his body that heretofore had been silent — his heart, his stomach — quietly speaking up and wondering if this was really such a good idea. “Wh-what?” Casey whispered, and hoped it sounded entirely innocent.

Jason’s face twisted and stared for several seconds. Then he said, “You’re confusing me.”

“I...I am?”

“I feel like I want...and I thought you knew...”

Casey swallowed. No, Jason wasn’t scary, just a bit...ambivalent, and Casey certainly didn’t blame him for that but at the same time he couldn’t help him. He couldn’t make the first move for him, not when he was going to be doing his utmost just to keep still.

With eyes narrowed, Jason muttered, “You have to make me say it, eh?”

“Would you?” Casey asked. “Please.”

Jason shook his head. He stated, “I want to kiss you.”

There it was, out in the moon-and-starlight, resounding in the quiet and now Casey simply kept his head turned towards Jason and put on what he hoped was a welcoming expression.

However, a whole lot of nothing much happened.

“Um,” Casey said. He had resolved that he wasn’t going to do this but he couldn’t endure this quiet and silence and it was just too fucking still. He was going to do something mad if it didn’t stop. “I’m cold.”

“Huh?”

“You could maybe start by putting your arm around me?”

Jason said, “Oh...yeah, sure.”

He lifted his hand and a frisson of panic shot through Casey. “Slowly!” he gulped.

Jason froze.

“Put it...around me slowly. Please.”

With a nod, Jason laced his arm about Casey’s upper body and let it carefully come to rest on top of them, then curled his hand over Casey’s shoulder. He did it as though in slow motion, and Casey found himself holding his breath, concentrating on not bolting, and at last the heavy warmth was surrounding him and he could imagine that it was not an arm, not attached to a person but rather something inanimate and harmless. A blanket, maybe.

Now, though...now he had to breathe. He let out a heavy sigh, exactly at the same moment as Jason. He twisted his head to get a look at Jason’s face, saw him looking back, and they both laughed.

It could have been all right...couldhavecouldhavemaybe...maybe-yes-maybe-nothing oh, god, oh, fuck, that was his breath...on his skin...man’s breath on his skin, it was a man touching him. A stranger, even if he happened to know him.

He is just doing what he’s doing at this moment, insisted his Yves-voice. It is what it is, it doesn’t imply anything else. It can stop any time. You can stop it.

“Better?” Jason whispered.

Casey nodded. The warmth was good, he decided. He liked being warm, so he could get used this arm-tentacle-thing.

“You okay?”

I can say no. I CAN say no.

“Your heart is going a mile a minute.”

I can say no.

“Casey?”

“Yeah…” he managed.

“I’m going to kiss you now.”

Casey managed to tilt his head slightly; it was all he could do to help at this point. He closed his eyes, because seeing the face of this person, the third man, the fourth person ever who was now looming and descending, he would freak even though he knew he wanted this, he wantedneeded it, he didn’t know why, he just knew that he did and he didn’t want to have to explain it to anyone, it was just something he had to do.

A soft pressure on his lips, and it felt as alien as something he’d never in fact done. He didn’t know what to do, it was like that first time with Roy again and he was terrified because Casey Connor did not kiss men, Casey Connor just did not kiss or touch and he was only touched if they wanted to hurt him, if he was kissing he was not Casey Connor, he didn’t know who he was in this moment.

The mouth on his sighed back and sucked on his upper lip before pressing down again, the tip of a tongue running gently along the space between his lips and now it was in it was in him and he wrenched himself away with a gasp. The arm about him tightened, another snaking round to join itself in the trap.

Panicking, he pulled his body in one direction but the arms only got closer.

“Hey!” Jason’s voice said. “Easy, you’re going to fall off!”

Instantly, Casey ceased his fight but remained panting just where he had been — next to a boy on the rock in the forest, and there were a moon and stars, he remembered that now.

Jason removed his arms. “Okay?”

Casey nodded. He trembled, and he shivered, and he was, he realized, as hard as the granite he was sitting on. “Kiss me some more,” he quavered.

“I’m not sure you want me to.”

In answer, Casey strained and licked up the right side of Jason’s neck and sank his teeth into his earlobe, heard Jason hiss. “Are you sure now?” he whispered. Another kiss, just a soft lingering about Jason’s mouth, and oh, this was fine, this was so good whoever it was didn’t matter and he didn’t care if he was really very naughty.

“Oh, sh-shit!” Jason strangled.

Time to make him stop the talking, the makingthinking but he couldn’t be too honest or it would all stop. “Shh,” Casey breathed, and planted a tiny caress alongside Jason’s lips, a bare nuzzle while he moved back slightly despite the aching fire in him. The boy didn’t want to be reminded he was kissing a boy. Casey would be just a soft pair of lips and big soft eyes if that was what the boy wanted.

The boy, Jason made a soft, needy sound in his throat; his hand knotted itself in Casey’s hair. Casey was enveloped in the taste of beer and boy, while around him was the waft of tree and water and male scents, a caress of the air and the boy kissing him, hard and soft at alternate moments, a little clumsy with his tongue deep inside, his hand pressed against Casey’s nape, not quite gripping, half-stroking. There was a slight pressure there that made something in his stomach tremble, either fear or eagerness or both it was, and Casey decided that he was going to just ignore it. The need to stay put overrode the need to back away.

He was not the one to stop it; suddenly he just knew there were two mouths where there had been some sucking, gasping thing. And he didn’t want that thing to stop. He tried pressing forward, but a hand in between their two bodies cupped his shoulder and suggested strongly otherwise.

“Whoa,” Jason whispered then. He wiped saliva from his lip, his hand shaking. “Geez.”

It sounded so northern United States, so very Fargo-esque that hard after his recent disappointment Casey had to giggle. He couldn’t be upset with Jason, who was pretty experimental for a straight guy. “Yeah,” Casey said. Jason shifted, looking aside, and Casey realized that he wanted him to move from his lap but he figured he’d give him a chance to overcome his discomfort. “You want to try something else?” he murmured, deep in his throat. “I’ll blow you if you want.”

“No!” Jason nearly yelped. “I mean…thanks, but no thanks.” He gave Casey a little push, clearly wanting him to get up.

Casey blinked, almost wondering if he had said what he thought he just said. Maybe it wasn’t a now-memory but an old one, maybe he hadn’t said it all. Without a word, he slid back off the end of Jason’s knees and stood.

“I don’t mean to…” Jason looked shy, barely able to meet Casey’s eyes. “I don’t mean to jerk you around.”

“It’s okay.” Casey shrugged. There was a terrifying pulse of need deep in his gut and his throat and...other places, too. It was a jolt of familiarity and disappointment and horror at the same instant. It said, you did this, why not do that, why not do it all because there were no lines between any of it. He closed his eyes, swallowing it down. “I was trying something out too.”

“Are you in love with Sasha?”

Suddenly, everything else was forced into the distance. “What?” Casey demanded, gaping at Jason.

“Are you — “

“Fuck, no. No. I love him, yeah, but not like that.”

“Then why did you come onto me?”

“Maybe I like you.”

Jason made a face.

“And maybe,” Casey went on, “Maybe I just wanted to see what it would feel like to kiss Sasha’s brother.”

“Oh.” Jason stared at him, his eyes glinting white in the half-light.

“What?”

“Nothing.”

“What?”

“You’re scary.”

“It was just... We were both experimenting, right?”

It had come out a little bitter despite the fact that Casey had been more than willing to be experimented on, and suddenly it was very awkward there on the little beach. Jason looked this way and that, and seemed to have nothing to say.

“We should go back,” Casey sighed. “Sasha will be freaking out right about now.”

“Right.”

But they didn’t move. They went some time in the awkward not-speaking, Jason sitting on the rock while Casey stood shifting his weight, and building a good, solid panic. He was beyond pathetic, he was actually evil because he was going to fuck up Sasha’s relationship with his family and it was already fucked up. He couldn’t believe the things he did, he just did them and then he couldn’t believe it and he didn’t even think he could tell Yves this one. She knew he wanted to start dating and that was all she knew, not that he was planning on something else, not that it was wrong, he was quite certain he knew what was right for him to do but this thing with Jason, it had been wrongwrongwrong —

“Fuck,” he gasped out.

Jason turned a miserable face up and towards him.

“I didn’t mean to fuck it up.”

For a second time that day, no less.

“Um…”

“I don’t want to ruin Sasha’s chance to have a family, please can we just forget this ever happened? Just pretend like it didn’t happen at all and be friendly like before, please? I can’t hurt Sasha, I can’t, he’s — “ Casey ran out of breath.

Jason lifted a hand and didn’t quite touch Casey’s arm; he lowered the hand and said, “Take it easy. It’s not like I want anyone to know about this…least of all Sasha.”

“Okay… “ Casey was able to get some oxygen. “Good.”

“We haven’t done anything really awful…have we?”

Casey knew what Jason wanted to hear. “No,” he replied, and considered the possibility that it was true, as long as he didn’t hurt Sasha by it. They were both adults here after all, but Sasha…Sasha was already hurting enough and he had a chance at reconnecting with his brothers and sister and didn’t even want to think about Casey having sex let alone with his brother. Knowing Sasha, he would probably blame Jason.

“Can I ask you something?” Jason said.

“Yeah.”

“How…how did I rate?”

Casey felt a smile spread his face. “That was the best kiss ever,” he said sincerely.

Even in the scant light, he could see Jason turning pink. “You must not have kissed very many people then.”

"Actually...I haven't. And not for several months."

"That explains it."

"And?"

"And what?"

"What about you? Did it — well, did it do what it was supposed to do?"

Jason was now a deeper colour. "Um...it was...okay."

"Just okay?"

"I'm not ready to switch teams, Casey."

"I know that!" Casey exclaimed, with a laugh. "I didn't expect you to."

"No?"

"No." Casey figured Jason had known that, had guessed that he was a person willing to be experimented upon. But he didn't say it.

"But if it was enjoyable...doesn't that mean...?"

"I don't think so," Casey said, shrugging.

"Really?"

"I don't think anyone's one hundred per cent straight. Everyone could make an exception once in a while.”

“I suppose.”

“Maybe…would you like to make some more exceptions?"

Jason turned an incredulous expression on him. "You were just all upset because of the kiss."

"Oh. Yeah.” Casey tried a nudge with his shoulder, bumping Jason gently. “It just turns me on…turning you to the dark side.”

“Wh…um…I…”

“Forget it.” Casey couldn’t quite repress a giggle. “Anyway, we should be going back.”

“Right,” Jason agreed, all too quickly.

They set out again, picking their way carefully on the moonlit-strewn path, and as they grew nearer to the beach, and Sasha, Casey became increasingly afraid that Sasha would be able to see in their faces that something was going on.

But Sasha didn’t give them so much as a curious look. He was wrapped up in his own thoughts. It never could have occurred to him that his brother and Casey might have done more than walk the path — because, Casey realized, Sasha trusted him and even trusted his brother despite barely knowing him. Sasha was a good person, too good for to detect the treachery of people like Casey Connor.

Later, when Casey gave his email address to Jason, he contrived to let his thumb brush a place on Jason’s hand, telling him that if he ever did come to Seattle, Casey would be willing to reopen his personal lab of sexual experimentation. The minute after he did it he wanted to kick himself in the head, but only after.

Jason gave him an odd, quick look, and Casey knew what he was thinking — that his brother’s friend and roommate was not a very good person at all, that he was a slut and crazy to boot.

 

He had long since learned not to look for judgment in Yves’ face when he told her things. When he finished, she merely concluded making a note of whatever salient details she had selected and glanced up, raising her brows.

“It was a shitty thing to do,” he said, before she could comment.

Now the brows drew together. “Why do you say that?”

“Sasha wouldn’t have…”

He looked at her, waiting for her condemnation.

“Wouldn’t have what?” she said.

“That wasn’t a nice thing to do to Sasha.”

“How so?”

“Um…” Casey was incredulous that she even needed it spelled out. “As in Jason was straight and I could have freaked him out so bad he never would have spoken to Sasha again? I could have messed up everything for him!”

Yves’ tone didn’t change. “Correct me if I’m wrong, Casey, but did you not just tell me that Jason showed an interest in you from the start?”

“Yeah, but I didn’t have to respond.”

“No, you didn’t. But was it such a bad thing that you did?”

“For one thing, it’s stupid to mess around with straight guys. I could have messed up Jason bad.”

“Jason is responsible for his own actions, right?”

“Yes,” Casey sighed. “But still…it was a stupid thing to do…on my side.”

“Why did you do it if you thought it was stupid?”

“I didn’t at the time. I didn’t think at all.”

“I doubt that you didn’t think something, Casey.”

He blinked at her. “I wanted to,” he admitted in a small voice. “I just wanted to.”

“And is that so terrible?”

“Dr. Yves...”

“Well?”

“Okay, I know I’ve been over generalizing and all that…but we can’t just do what we want all the time.”

“No, we can’t. But you know…that’s a fairly romantic scene you just described, and people do get carried away sometimes.”

“Not!” he protested.

“Why not? You have the moon, a lake, a beach…”

“But it was just a kiss. It wasn’t even a date.”

“Is that necessary for it to be romantic?”

Stubbornly, he insisted, “I don’t want romance.”

“What do you mean by that?”

He was brought up short, and stared.

“Humour me,” she said. “What do you mean by romance?”

“I mean…all that extra, made-up stuff that is supposed to be what love is about…but it’s not.”

“I agree. Romance and love are not the same thing. But wasn’t it possible that you were overcome by the moment?”

He didn’t answer.

“Is that not a thoroughly normal thing to happen?”

“It wasn’t that,” he muttered.

“What was it?”

“I wanted to! I wanted to know what it would be like to kiss Sasha’s brother, okay? I wanted to see if I could — “ He broke off.

“See if you could?” she prompted.

He shrugged. “See if I could handle it.”

“And you did, didn’t you?”

“Yes. I almost freaked for a second but then…then it was okay.” Thinking of Jason’s lips, Casey sighed to himself. “It was way okay.”

Yves said nothing, sensing that he had more self-recrimination, no doubt, and she was not wrong.

“I used him,” Casey lamented.

“People do that, sometimes.”

“But he had just lost his father. He probably would never have done it, otherwise.”

“Maybe not. But on the other hand, some people would say he was using you. Leading you on.”

“He wasn’t. We both knew that.”

A moment later he heard what he had said. He looked up and saw her eyebrows in their characteristic position.

“What is it that really bothers you about this, Casey?” she asked, gently.

He wanted to put his hand over his eyes, to hide. “I’m afraid…I can’t control myself,” he muttered. “I want every guy I see, just about.”

“Are you going to have every guy you see?”

“No, but I think…Zeke thinks that at some point he’s going to be wining and dining me and sending me flowers and chocolate, like I need that, like I’m some girl.” Belatedly, Casey remembered that, technically, he was talking to a girl and winced. “Sorry.”

Yves mouth curled up slightly. “It’s fine.”

“I don’t need that, I don’t want it…I don’t have to be seduced. I mean, if I were a real asshole I could go fuck Zeke right now.”

“But you don’t. Why is that?”

“I don’t know.”

“Yes, you do, Casey.”

“Okay, I don’t want to do that to him. It’s not fair to him.”

“Is that all, though?”

“Um…”

“Is that all you want from Zeke?”

“I don’t know what I want.”

“Okay, fair enough.”

“I always want him to be my friend, I know that.”

“That’s good, Casey.”

He groaned, “I just don’t know what’s friendship and what’s love and what’s romance…I don’t know how to tell them all apart! I used to love Roy and I thought I would die every time he left me alone…”

“That’s not love, Casey. It’s not even romance.”

“What is it?”

“Dependency.”

“But isn’t that what the books and movies say that love is?”

“Some of them,” Yves replied, with a nod.

Fidgeting, Casey ground out, “I don’t know what this conversation is about now.”

“I’m just trying to help you organize your expectations, Casey. Your expectations of Zeke, and the Norse God, and then your expectations of the rest of the men in Seattle.”

“I don’t know what I expect,” he groaned. “Except some sex. Does that make me a slut?”

“Hmm,” Yves said. “That depends. Last time I checked, there was no particular criteria. What I want to know is, does it matter?”

“You’re asking does it matter if I’m a slut?”

“I wouldn’t put it that way exactly. When you say slut, do you mean a person who likes to have a lot of sex, or are you passing a moral judgment?”

Casey whispered hopefully, “A person who likes to have a lot of sex?”

“Then I don’t see the problem. I’d be concerned if you were doing that thing that you do where you judge yourself for your desires. “

The moment was ripe for him to mention some of those desires, to mention that he had a longing to be pounded and tenderized until he had no brain left, to completely give up any responsibility for the moment. Maybe she would say it was okay, she was generally so very tolerant and permissive about what he wanted as long as he wasn’t hurting himself with it. She seemed to accept — way better than Sasha or Zeke who should have understood but for some reason couldn’t get it through their big brains — that sometimes a guy just wanted to get laid.

Realizing that the moment of opportunity had passed, Yves continued, “That is, it’s okay as long as you’re — “

“Yes, yes, as long as I’m safe and I don’t hurt myself or anyone else.” Casey folded his arms, hunkering into the chair. “But the thing is…” Oh, shit, oh, fuck, he was going to say it after all. “… What if I start and I can’t stop?” Okay, so not really IT, but…what if I don’t want to stop? What if I just spend the rest of my life having sex with random men, leaving Zeke to be miserable and broken hearted and what if I don’t care enough to stop for his sake? What does that make me?

Human, his inner Yves responded promptly.

Yeah, but what if I don’t just want sex? What if I want this guy to nail me to the floor, what if I’m looking for a little rough trade but I haven’t told you about that? What do you think then?

“I think that question is premature, Casey. Why don’t you spend some time with this one man and then we talk about it and see what happens next?”

“You don’t think I’m going to go through with it.”

“I have no idea what’s going to happen, and that’s the truth. It’s great that you were able to overcome your anxiety with — “ Yves checked her notes. “— with Jason, but you know as well as anyone that that isn’t necessarily a predictor of what will happen.”

“Like, way to encourage me.”

Yves shrugged. “I’m just saying take this one thing at a time. If you start feeling really nervous later, you can do a mood log to help you calm down —“

“I’m calm.”

Yves raised a brow.

“As calm as I get,” Casey amended.

“Tell me something, Casey. Is physical enjoyment all that you expect out of this encounter?”

Sometimes, it really did seem like she could read his mind.

“Um…well… it’s like I said before…I need to know that I can be with other people.”

“I have the feeling there’s a little more to it.”

He closed his eyes and began to carefully parcel out the bits that he could afford to give away. “Okay. It’s like…when I was with Roy and Zeke, I was all twisted up in my head. I need to know how much of it was Roy, how much was Zeke…how much was me…”

How much was HER…how much I can keep.

“So this isn’t just about sex.”

“It’s all about sex, Dr. Yves.”

“I mean, it isn’t just about physical pleasure. It also serves an emotional purpose for you.”

“Okay…”

“I just wanted to have it acknowledged, Casey, and I want you to know that there’s nothing wrong with it. When a person’s been through a trauma they may find themselves needing to explore certain things for themselves and it may not make a lot of sense to other people. It’s okay.”

“Okay,” he breathed, as his heart pounded with the fear that she would want to discuss the trauma and what it meant now.

“You don’t have to explain it to me, Casey. I understand.”

But she didn’t, not entirely, because Casey had no intention of telling her about the things he felt sometimes, how he used the memory of Mary Beth to get around….how he thought he really was all that was left of her on Planet Earth and how it made him stronger. It made him into that person who sometimes thought everyone around him was merely human while he was something else. Sometimes, when he was in the shower, he would just stop and become a thing, akin to the water he so loved to be in, with no beginning no end no outside. It was mad, maybe, or maybe just flaky, but it was how he survived in this world. He would never be like other people but he had realized something — he didn’t want to be.

The alien invasion had been a terrible gift, one that he no longer knew how to be without. He couldn’t be without it because he would be a different person now. This person was not some ordinary kid from the mid-West who got good grades and went to college and went through life doing all the things he was expected to. Well, except for the part where he was gay, but maybe he wouldn’t have met Roy and he wouldn’t have learned to be fearless in the act of sex. Maybe he wouldn’t have come out to his parents and he’d have spent his life in the closet. Without the aliens there would have been no Roy and everything that he had learned with Roy, and then maybe there would have been no Zeke. There would have been no Sasha, no Seattle, no Yves and Casey out here in the universe as this person he was becoming. He wanted to become. He didn’t want to go back.

“There’s one more thing, Casey.”

“Yes?”

“Are you going to tell Zeke about this?” He made no effort to guard his reaction; his face must have told the story of it, but she laughed gently a moment later. “I take it that’s a no.”

“He’s so jealous all the time…you have no idea.”

“I think I do have an idea.”

“You probably think he’s some scary, abusive-boyfriend type.”

“Not at all. I see someone who has a lot of love to give and a lot of reasons to be afraid that he’ll be rejected.”

“He’s trying really hard, Dr. Yves.”

“I believe you.”

“But he doesn’t seem to be able to control…being jealous. I think it kills him that he can’t control it because he’s so brilliant and he knows so much. It humiliates him…and that just makes it worse.”

“I think you’re probably right, Casey. And given that, don’t you think it would be better for him to know the truth instead of having to be in a position where he’s making it up?”

Casey couldn’t help wincing again. “He’ll flip out. I’m not kidding.”

Yves didn’t bother to comment.

“He might try and stop me.”

“Stop you, how?”

“I don’t know…he’ll forbid me, that’s for sure. And he might try something physical.”

“Like what?”

“Like… lock me up in the apartment or something.”

“Really?”

Casey nodded, unable to prevent himself from thinking about their disastrous “date” back in January when Zeke was refusing to accept that Casey wanted to move out. He thought about it every day, about what he had brought Zeke to. It wasn’t because of him being so special, it was because of him being so fucked up. It was a heady and constant reminder to achieve his best approximation of sanity, for Zeke’s sake.

“When he was last here,” Yves reflected, “Zeke alluded to having done something he regretted.”

“Yeah.”

“Something…physical?”

“I don’t want to tell you.”

“Why not?”

“Because he’s so ashamed of it…and you’ll think he’s something he’s not.”

“It’s always up to you what you want to tell me, Casey.”

Casey chewed his lip, trying to work out what he should say.

“Just tell me this, Casey. If you tell Zeke that you’re going to see this man tonight…do you think he’ll hurt you?”

“No!”

“Yet… you seem nervous about the idea of telling him.”

“Wouldn’t anyone be? You know what he can do with words, Dr. Yves.”

“Indeed,” Yves replied, with her typical, mild smile.

“I think that’s what scares me the most.”

“I don’t blame you. Words can hurt too. But we don’t practice honesty and assertiveness because we want to control other people’s reactions. We do it for our own emotional health.”

“Yeah.”

“You know all too well what happens when you aren’t honest with people, Casey.”

“Yeah,” he groaned.

“Do you want a replay of those situations?”

I guess fucking is what sluts call therapy.

“No,” he whispered. He didn’t want to hear that again, or anything like it. Even if it happened to be true this time.

“So are you going to tell him?”

“I’ll try,” he said.

“All right. Good.”

“Is it time to go?”

“Yup.” Yves stood up to see him to the door as always. This time, she put a hand on his shoulder. “Remember, Casey, no matter how far a situation has progressed, you always have the right to stop it.”

“Yes.”

“All right. I’m looking forward to hearing about it tomorrow.”

He shivered suddenly — with excitement, he thought. It was difficult to tell the difference between excitement and other things. He summoned up an image of the Nordic God — Chris, in his Speedo — and smiled to himself all the way back to the apartment.

He had never appreciated Zeke’s presence as an organizing factor. Now it was towels and clothing on the floor, books scattered around. His room was, in maternal vernacular, a disaster area. Sasha had told him so.

But there were some kinds of disorder that were perfectly artful, in his view. Such as, most of the wall behind his computer had become a collage, covered with printer-generated photos he had taken with his digital camera. He wasn’t sure exactly when the desire to pick it up and use it had started; he remembered looking at it — maybe in February — and feeling slightly terrified, but then by the end of the school term he had been using it every day, taking shot after shot after shot, deleting most of them, of course, and feeling that almost-forgotten sensation of pleasure with his own work. Looking through the viewfinder, putting his very own frame around things — and now he could experiment with colour and tone and focus more easily than he ever could have with the traditional camera. He had been going through batteries at a rate that probably made him an eco-criminal, until Zeke realized and bought him a rechargeable set.

Lately, he was all about images using the micro-focus setting — close-ups of blades of grass and leaves and flowers. His proudest accomplishment was the capture of a moth’s wings, which had required a lot of patience and stillness and, he suspected, was still a matter of random good fortune.

He stared at the moth, and conceived a sudden, pressing need to talk to Zeke. Looking around for his cell phone, he recalled leaving it on his computer desk; he found it there and his speed dial one. Zeke answered immediately.

“Hey.”

“Hey. It’s me.”

“What’s up?”

“Um...not much. I was going to go out and take some shots.”

“Oh, yeah?”

Zeke had been accompanying him on his photography sessions lately. At first, Casey had been unsure how he felt about it, but soon he realized that he rather liked it. One of his photographic ambitions was to capture Zeke in a candid, informal moment without having to wait for him to fall asleep. So far, it hadn’t happened. He’d snapped a ton of shots, but Zeke always managed to catch him at it, turning or smirking or winking at the last second.

“You want to come with?” Casey asked, thinking that maybe today...but no, he had some serious shit to deliver. Maybe Zeke would decline today. Maybe today would be the one day out of the entire summer when Zeke had some major errand to complete and Casey could dodge —

“Okay. I’ll be there twenty minutes.”

“Kay.”

Casey hung up, and sighed long and hard. He lay down on the bed and, on a whim, held the camera up over his face, depressing the shutter release, capturing himself, he hoped, with his eyes closed. He checked in the viewfinder and saw that he was partially out of frame. He chose another angle, trying to keep his face as smooth as possible. Then another.

Roy had always been taking pictures of him, often when he was lying in bed or some other unguarded position. When Casey asked him, once, what sort of picture he was after, Roy had just given him a strange look and said, “I want a picture of you.

He wasn’t sure entirely what Roy had meant, and yet he did kind of understand. Images lied. They held themselves out as real and that was the terrible paradox of them, the thing that shackled the photographer to the camera, always trying to capture something that really didn’t tell you a fucking thing about it. To be a photographer you had to buy into the lie a good part of the time. It wasn’t that you didn’t know, you just thought that you could be the one who got the first real image in the history of the world.

Like for instance, Casey knew that Zeke was so much more than he might ever appear to be on film, but he was still going to keep trying, because Zeke was... so Zeke, so obviously Zeke that it had to be possible to get it on film. Always there for Casey, always giving Casey things and watching out for him. Hovering around Casey on campus in way that both frustrated him and made him feel safe. Hanging out with Casey all the time, as if he truly enjoyed his company and somehow found his conversation adequate to stimulate his monster-sized brain.

Going with Casey to visit Thomas in the hospital not once but twice, which had been way beyond anything expected of an ex-boyfriend. Casey would never forget that.

 

The first visit hadn’t been too bad. Casey had met Thomas’ father, who seemed like a kind and sad old man. Reverend Kirton. Just like Thomas had told him so there were probably a lot more things Thomas had told him that were true. Thomas was the usual, frighteningly energetic version of himself, talking non-stop and barely hearing anyone. If he hadn’t been lying in a hospital bed in secure ward, it would have felt like any other Thomas-encounter that Casey had had.

In the visitors’ lounge, later, Reverend Kirton had told Casey that Thomas was bipolar and he was rapid cycling. The hospital people considered him a suicide risk but Casey could hardly believe it. At risk of getting into a lot of trouble, yes — but suicide? Reverend Kirton assured him that it was quite possible, and then asked Casey how he and Thomas had met.

“Just from talking to him. He...hung around where I live.”

Thomas’ father had seemed not entirely surprised.

“What’s...” Casey had begun and broke off, very aware that they were in a lounge full of people — two of whom were Sasha and Zeke. They had decided not to go into Thomas’ room, to wait here, and he could feel their eyes boring into his skin, wondering what new shit he was going to pull. “What’s going to happen to him?”

“They say he may be released in a few weeks, if he responds to medication. He will have to come home to live with me and his mother.”

“To — ”

“To Barbados, yes.”

Casey had lowered his voice as far as he could and still be heard by the man in front of him. “I’m afraid…sir, I’m afraid this was my fault.”

The elderly man had shook his head. “Not at all. What you must understand is my son has had this affliction his entire life. He is well when he takes his medication...and he was well for quite some time. He must have stopped...I don’t know when.”

“Do you — “ Casey had gulped, thinking about how Thomas was when he first met him, and his decline. But he must have already been off his meds at that point, because it had all been a sham, the suit and the claims that he was running a business. The man had been living in his car, and later he lost that and then he had been living on the street — and this, from a person who had begun as a successful psychologist — no, psychoanalyst, Thomas had said. He wondered how, if Thomas had been doing so well for so long, he had accomplished such a complete disintegration. “Do you know why?”

“No. I truly thought...but, I remember he told me once, when he was just a teenager that...that the only time he felt good was when he was sick.”

Now Reverend Kirton began to look distressed, and he hid his face from Casey which made Casey feel like crying.

“I am sure that I have done something, committed some sin that caused God to visit this affliction upon him. If only He had seen fit to punish me only...”

Don’t do that, Casey had wanted to plead. Don’t, not in front of me… and he had to tell him, make him understand that he, Casey, was probably to blame somehow. “Sir…listen, I want to tell you something.”

Reverend Kirton had raised his head, probably more out of politeness than a willingness to give up his private grief.

“Sir, if he wasn’t sick I wouldn’t have met him...and I’m glad I met him.”

The next time Casey went to see Thomas, Reverend Kirton wasn’t there. Only Zeke had gone with him this time, no Sasha, and initially, Casey had suggested that Zeke could wait for him in the lounge. For some reason Zeke had wanted to come with him into the room, and Casey had realized that he was deeply grateful for it the moment they had stepped through the door.

Thomas was lying on his side, staring at the window. He didn’t so much as twitch a the sound of the door opening and when Casey said, “Thomas? It’s me…” there was no response whatsoever.

Casey immediately looked to Zeke, and Zeke’s expression seemed neutral. Casey shuffled forward, all the way to the side of the bed.

“Thomas?”

He didn’t think he was going to get any kind of results, but then Thomas moved — slowly and painfully, as though it were a monumental effort even to do this much. He turned onto his back and gazed up at Casey, showing no pleasure or even interest in Casey’s presence.

“Hello,” Casey whispered.

But Thomas just blinked and put on an expression of something close to disgust.

“Thomas…just wanted to see you... how….how are you?”

His friend closed his eyes. Casey’s throat began to ache fiercely. Almost at the same moment, Zeke moved into place beside him, and Casey surrendered to the overwhelming urge to grab his hand. It was a warm, solid comfort.

“I guess I can see how you are. Um…” Casey looked about, spotted a single chair, and gave up on sitting. He wasn’t letting go of Zeke’s hand any time this century. “Um…I met your father.” A second later, he recalled that Thomas had been here at the time. “Okay, that’s stupid. I guess you knew that.”

He cleared his throat and rocked from side to side, staring at the window. He hadn’t realized how much he had relied on Thomas to fill their encounters with conversation.

“I hate this,” he whispered. “You shouldn’t be here.”

“Mr. Casey.”

The sound of Thomas’ voice jolted him. He looked down, blinking away moisture and pulling on Zeke’s hand hard enough that he heard him grunt and bump into Casey.

“You must go... now... Mr. Casey,” he said. He seemed to be speaking in slow motion.

“But I…”

“I do not want you here.”

“Thomas…”

Thomas’ brown eyes were dull yet still somehow understanding Casey, knowing him. The man was trembling like a person who had just spent their last measure of strength. “You do not belong. Do you understand? You do not belong... here.”

Leave me, his eyes implored. Leave me alone now before I run out of the will to give you what you need to hear.

And Casey left, and he would always wonder if that had been the right thing to do — although, not right then. At the time, he just needed to get away. He ran out, all the way to the car, ignoring Zeke’s calls not far behind him. He had to wait for Zeke at the car, for his door to be unlocked and then he huddled morosely on his side of the front seat.

“He’s going to be all right.”

Casey thought that was laughable. He dashed angrily at tear that was just about ready to fall.

“Did you hear me?” Zeke said.

“Yes.”

“Well?”

“You don’t like him...what do you care?”

“You know what? He’s probably a fine fellow. I mean it. I don’t really know him, or what he’s like when he’s not sick, okay...but I think he’s right about one thing. I don’t like seeing you in that place even if you are just visiting. I’m glad he said that.”

Casey sighed. His throat ached terribly. “I just...he’s so...by himself, though.”

“I think he’ll be all right, Casey.”

“I’m afraid he got sick so he could show me.”

“That’s ridiculous. You heard his father. It’s a typical pattern for manic-depressives. The cure’s almost as bad as the disease.”

The tone of Zeke’s voice cued a memory: Zeke in August, in September, even later. The sound of the Zeke who had seemed to have an endless supply of patience, when just that voice could calm Casey’s gut. It seemed to be having that effect right now, too.

Casey twisted around. He tilted his head, laying it sideways on the headrest so he could watch Zeke drive. He’d always loved this. He adored Zeke’s calm profile and the way his hands moved on the steering wheel. He never did anything without that air of competence, and if he couldn’t be competent, he didn’t do it. It didn’t much matter, though, because Zeke was good at nearly everything, or if he wasn’t good, he had the ability to be good. He just had to care about it.

Zeke took his gaze from the road and met Casey’s. “What?”

“You’ve been reading about bipolar disorder?” Casey asked.

“Naw. It just came up. Part of my general psychiatric education.”

“Do you actually know everything?” Casey asked, hearing his own voice lower and thrum with admiration.

Zeke shook his head, making a face that was attractively self-deprecating. “The more I know...the more I realize how much I don’t know.”

“Ooh...” Casey yawned, feeling quite comfortable in this position with his head resting this way. He loved the Mustang. “Philosophy.”

“Tired?” Zeke asked him.

“Yeah...guess it’s nap time.”

“I’ll have you home in just a few minutes.”

“Zeke?”

“Yeah.”

“Thanks for taking me there. I know you didn’t have to.”

Zeke shrugged. “You’re welcome. Anytime you want to go anywhere...just let me know, I’ll be your chauffeur.”

“Home, Tyler,” Casey said, with another yawn. He couldn’t help smiling.

 

Naturally, since Zeke was an honest-to-fuck, Ohio born-and-bred hero, Casey had to make it his business to tear him down, tear him apart. That had to have been his project all along, on some level. It had to be, how else he could have stood over Zeke while he wheezed and begged, and told him he was being pathetic?

But it had hurt to see Zeke that way, so desperate. Casey had expected the anger and the jealousy when he told Zeke about Chris, and, sure enough, there it was and Casey was authorized to feel the clean fire of anger in return. Except then suddenly it went sour and Zeke was all but begging... begging him? Begging Casey Connor, didn’t Zeke know Casey wasn’t worth it? It made Casey angry to see Zeke like this.

When Casey returned home, still early in the afternoon, Sasha was already showered and dressed for work; he was sitting in his chair with a magazine, the picture of casualness. Casey flopped flat on the couch and put his hand over his eyes, blocking some of the afternoon light from the front window. The living room was more comfortable than it had ever been, just now. The perfect place to stay, to relax, to not go out on dates with strange men, to strange places — why do that when you could stay at home with Zeke and do the routine, not hurt Zeke.

Except he was hurting Zeke. Everything staying the same was hurting Zeke, and everything changing was hurting Zeke. There was no way not to hurt Zeke. Whatever Casey did, he realized, it would hurt anyone stupid enough to care about him.

“Kitten, you’re way too young to make sounds like that.”

“Sounds…?”

The pages of Sasha’s magazine rustled. “You just made this dreadful sigh like the world is on your shoulders.”

Casey forced himself to open his eyes, to face the reality of the day’s events. He sat up. “Sasha. You know how we’re supposed to go out clubbing this Friday?”

“Yeah…” Sasha made a bright face suddenly, closing the magazine. “You want to cancel?”

“You said you were looking forward to it.”

“Yeah, I like to dance, but you know how I feel about you going on the flesh market.”

“Um…well, here’s the thing…I kinda have a date tonight.”

Sasha blinked. “Oh, yeah?”

“Remember me telling you about the Nordic God?”

“Yeah — you mean him?”

“He stopped me in between the pool and the lockers. He asked me to join him and some friends out tonight…and he wants me to meet him at his house.”

“Ah,” was Sasha’s comment. Then he sat forward and clasped his hands together. He remained in that pose for some time, until Casey couldn’t bear it any longer.

“Sasha?” he begged.

“What time?” Sasha inquired, not looking at Casey but at his hands.

“What time am I going there?”

“Yeah.”

“Eight o’clock.”

“And the address.”

“2245 Secord.

“You write that down for me. Okay, here’s what we’re going to do. You will have your cell phone with you and it will be charged. You will have condoms and lube. You will promise to phone me precisely at 9:00 p.m. tonight. If I don’t hear from you on time I will call the police.”

“Sasha — “

“What?” Sasha said mildly. “If you can’t make a simple phone call I shouldn’t be worried?”

“What if circumstances…”

“Circumstances?”

“You never know. Maybe I’ll try and not get through. Maybe…maybe my cell phone will die.”

“Seeing as this is the twenty-first century, this guy probably has a phone, and if he doesn’t…well, that’s why you bring your cell.”

“Other things can happen. What if I couldn’t get a signal?”

“You’re not going anywhere you won’t be able to get a signal,” snarled Sasha. “Okay, I’ll give you a fifteen minute grace period. Plenty of time to find a pay phone if you need to.”

“Okay,” Casey sighed.

Sasha sat back in his chair. Folding his arms, he said, “I take it you’re planning on some sex happening.”

Casey echoed him, folded his own arms tight across his chest. “I think so.”

“How do you feel about that?”

“Fine,” Casey gritted.

“You think you’re ready?”

Casey shot to his feet. “I don’t want to talk about how I feel about it anymore, Sasha, I want to fucking do it! Okay?!”

Sasha held up his hands. “I’m not fighting with you, kitten.”

“For the last time, I’m ready. I’m more than ready, I’m bursting!”

“Okay...okay... ”

Casey saw and heard someone shouting at his best friend, and he sagged back onto the couch hating the ass-wipe who could do that to Sasha. Really, Casey hated himself for several minutes out of every day, altogether. “I’m sorry.”

“It’s okay.” Sasha sighed, shaking his head. “You’ve always been too tolerant of me, kitten.”

“I haven’t.”

“You haven’t…what? Tolerated me?”

“No, I’m…” With eyes closed, Casey said, “I’m the one who needs to be tolerated. Sometimes I think…I think I’m as bad as Roy.” He opened his eyes to see the response.

Sasha’s double take was so obvious, it was like watching an animated character, every gesture and feeling illustrated in the most literal way. “Say again?”

“You know, I’m…”

“No. Just fucking…no.” Suddenly, Sasha had leaned forward and grabbed Casey’s arm. His pupils were small and dark, his body shaking. “You feel bad about how you treat me? Then do me a favor — don’t ever, ever compare yourself to Roy. That’s self-indulgent crap and I don’t deserve it.”

Casey hung his head, feeling the slow, heavy feelings inside. It was like this, now and then. Sometimes they pounced, the Bad Feelings, and that was okay because it was normal, but other times, like now, they just ground on him so he couldn’t breathe. “But I’m hurting Zeke,” he whispered.

“You mean…” Sasha let go of Casey’s arm, his eyes returning to something nearer to normal. “Zeke knows?”

“He knows I’m going out.”

“To the guy’s house?”

“Not…really.”

“I see.”

“But it hurt him anyway.”

“Casey, I don’t see a solution to that.”

“Exactly. Just like…”

“Casey,” Sasha growled.

“I’m — I’m not being self-indulgent,” Casey begged. “I’m not, let me explain.”

Sasha pressed his lips together, lifting his shoulders.

“He was always doing stuff because...because he thought it was his right or something he needed…just like I’m doing.”

“No. Kitten…”

“It’s the same.”

“It isn’t. I’m sorry I got intense on you, but these situations are never easy and someone always tends to get hurt but it’s how you handle it that makes the difference. And you are way different from Roy.”

“I’m still lying to Zeke.”

And I’m lying to you, and Yves.

And even worse, he didn’t regret it. Telling his friends, his loved ones, of those other reasons for why he was doing what he was doing…not an option. He reviewed his memories of Chris’ smoothly defined muscles and the barely disguised equipment he had crammed in his Speedo and no, there was no other option but lying.

Because he didn’t jerk off to fantasies of Zeke. He dreamed about Zeke sometimes, but those dreams weren’t fun. He jerked off to thoughts of the Nordic God. Once he’d fantasized that Jason had decided to be really experimental and fuck him on that rock. That had been a fucking good one, with his cock in his fist and two fingers up his ass. It was a good thing he’d had the apartment to himself that night because he’d screamed so loud when he came, he was sure they could have heard it at Wellth, if Wellth had been open.

“You told him you were going out,” Sasha said. “I think that’ll do. He’ll infer the rest himself. He’ll more than infer.” And he sighed.

“Yeah. I know.”

“And?”

“And it bothers him.”

“Yeah.”

“It really hurts him, Sasha.”

Sasha shrugged. “I don’t want to sound callous, but... that’s life, kitten. Zeke loves you and you don’t know if you love him. That’s a recipe for pain, and all you can do is be honest. It isn’t like you want to hurt him.”

“That’s what Roy would say too.”

Shaking his head, Sasha retorted, “Casey, there is such a huge difference between what Roy would do and this. He was using you and punishing you for his life. Is that what you’re doing to Zeke?”

Casey wasn’t so sure that he wasn’t doing that.

“Kitten,” growled Sasha.

“Okay, no,” he allowed. “I mean…I guess not.”

“You’re trying to discover things for yourself, and you’ve barely been at it for a year, kitten. If you’re still doing this five years from now, my opinion might change, but for now… I don’t think you’re doing anything particularly evil.”

“What about the part where I hang out with Zeke every day and talk to him on the phone and…flirt with him?”

“You flirt with him?”

“I can’t help it, see. I get scared and then I remember how he could make me feel...”

“And it isn’t at all because you’re attracted to him.”

“I don’t know…I feel like I am but…”

Sasha groaned. “Casey, you are way over thinking everything. Let’s just grant that you’re an ordinary, everyday sort of schmuck, okay?”

“Okay,” Casey said, forcing a smile.

“Good…and now that that’s settled…” Sasha shrugged. He picked up the remote and pointed it at the TV. “Dr. Chakri’s office called. You’re due for your six month follow up.”

Casey could have sworn he’d just been to see Dr. Chakri but Sasha was extremely diligent about keeping track of his appointments and if Sasha said it was six months, it was six months. But it ought to be a short one. Just a prescription renewal, a quick review of things. She might ask if she could do that rectal exam again and he would have to refuse again. It was enough for him that his final blood test had come back clean.

“I’ll call them.”

“Will I have to nag?”

“No.”

“Good.” Sasha had settled on Oprah.

“I’m going to…um, gotta do some homework.”

“Yup.”

The back of Casey’s neck crawled. Sasha should be jumping up and down on the couch, or at least refusing to let him go out, but he was not. He seemed entirely fixated on Oprah’s guest for today, holding the remote loosely in his hand.

The dread didn’t dissipate as he headed to his room, and his journal. He probably should do a mood log, but he’d done so many and he just didn’t have the will for it right now. He draped himself across his bed and got down to writing. The journal itself was new and thick, with an outer space theme on the cover. Zeke’s idea of a joke, perhaps.

July 5th, he scratched, and then he was stuck.

His brain filled up with images of Chris and Zeke and Roy and Thomas and he wanted to just curl into a ball and never leave this room. He didn’t want to put it down on paper, he didn’t want to move.

Sometimes, it happened this way. Sometimes he felt so ill inside, he couldn’t bear himself. All he could do was brace himself through it, and the scariest thing was being afraid that it wouldn’t ever go away.

But so far, it always had. So far.

Eventually, the sickness dissipated enough for him to roll over and flip to the next blank page. He stared at it for a while, and finally, he found the gumption to put pen to paper.

I can’t believe I’m doing this to Zeke. Well, actually, I guess I can believe it, because I’m doing it. I also can’t believe that I’m going to do it, just because. Because I’m a coward and I’m going to go to this strange man’s apartment? Yes, I am. I have to. I want to.

I really do want to. No one knows about this need I feel. Dramatic but true. It’s like hunger, but it’s more than that. It’s not like before, but it is. It’s like, if I really am safe, if I really can have them all, I have to know it. I have to see, so then the world that they live in can be my world too. I have to see it as my world or I’ll be too scared to leave home. I need to be ALL of them.

This sounds pretty fucking crazy. I don’t even know what I mean with this. I only need to be all of the men, what?! That’s how I know that I’m nuts, when I think that fucking every man I see will cure me.

I wish I knew how to tell if I loved someone. Is it enough that I love him as a friend, that I miss him all the time and there’s no question he’s incredibly hot and if I were a total prick I would go over to Stokely’s and fuck him right now? Is that being in love? And so what? What if I loved him? I would still be this slut, wouldn’t I? I would still hurt him.

Maybe I can just get this out of my system and then I can give him what he wants.

He was going around in circles. He pushed the journal away with a disgusted noise and just lay there with his eyes closed, but he was tired of his own thoughts too. He grabbed for the book he had been reading, one that Zeke bought him recently... The Celluloid Closet, about homosexuality in Hollywood. Zeke, the hero, always buying him things because he couldn’t afford to buy them himself. Zeke whom he was screwing upside-down, backwards and sideways.

Not thinking about it. That was the answer.

He was only moderately successful at not thinking about it just until Sasha had to leave for work. Poking his head in Casey’s room, Sasha made him recite again his promise to call promptly at nine o’clock. He delivered a last minute instruction — “Don’t you dare take a drink from him or anyone else!” — and then he just left as though it were merely another night in the life of a chef, and Casey wondered if he’d slipped into some sort of partial delusion where the entire business of his date with Chris was partitioned off and unreal.

Now he had a number of hours until that time, and usually Zeke would be here now to help him pass it. They would watch movies or just watch the tube. Sometimes, during the spring semester, they had both read their textbooks together.

Once in a while, they would play trivia. They were fairly well-matched, because although Zeke knew a lot about just about everything, his waterloo was the realm of popular culture — while Casey could be held at bay indefinitely with the sports and leisure category, unless he happened to get lucky with a question about chess or cards.

They’d gone to museums and bookstores, on the pretext of helping Casey expand his range of safe spaces, but also because they both really just liked them.

They’d gone on photographic walks, Zeke promising to keep Casey from being bumped or bumping into anyone as he concentrated solely on what he could see through his lens.

Of course, at least once a week, they went to the movies.

And they’d gone out to practice driving, spending hours touring around in the secondary roads near Seattle.

Not to mention the part where Zeke had let himself become a live punching bag for Casey to work out his rage. If that wasn’t using Zeke, nothing else was.

And now here he was, with five hours to kill before he could leave for his date with another guy, and he was lamenting that Zeke he couldn’t ask Zeke to help him with that. Headline: Casey Connor is a fucking jerk. Not an everyday, ordinary schmuck, but an actual jerk.

He could phone Zeke and say he was sorry, say he’d cancel or just not show up and, by the way, they could just pick up their old relationship because there was no reason not to. He could do that.

Or he could just say he was sorry — except he’d said that already, hadn’t he? He couldn’t remember. He’d told Zeke what he was doing and this was where Yves would tell him he wasn’t obligated to do more than that, and yet he felt obligated, and he hated that he felt that. He was just twenty and he was not fucking married for fuck sake, he should be able to go out and have fun if he wanted — and he wanted, he really wanted. He didn’t want just Zeke. That had been the whole point to begin with, he seemed to recall. He wanted so much right now that if he tried to be with Zeke it would be a disaster — wouldn’t it, yes, yes, no, he didn’t know — fuck!

Yes. Because Zeke didn’t share. Zeke wanted all of him and he wanted to be in a position to give Zeke all of him if he could. And so, he was going to go out tonight with Chris the Norse God and he was going to have a Fucking Good Time.

Unbearable.

He grabbed his camera and went out onto the street... wandering around snapping the odd shot, fascinated by the faces he saw. He often thought he’d like to do some candid portraits but he didn’t know how to approach people to ask them to take their picture, and he wasn’t sure he felt entirely comfortable about doing it without their knowledge. He was going to have to get over that, but in the meantime, he couldn’t seem to take any pictures that weren’t lousy and in less than an hour he was back home, feeling a complete failure as a photographer.

Do a mood log, Casey.

Okay, so was overreacting. He was a good photographer, probably even a talented one. Not every shot had to be brilliant.

He ate some cereal for supper, and checked that his phone was charged. Just to be safe, he plugged it in for a while. Eventually he found himself sitting on the couch watching something but he could barely focus on it. The minutes crawled by, and he had to force himself not to look at the clock too often.

At six, he started to get ready. He took a very thorough shower and dressed in his snug black jeans and black acetate shirt, the one that clung to his skin and made him feel very gothic. He would have to carry his cell phone in his hand, because it couldn’t possibly fit in his pocket; he would be lucky to get condoms and lube in there. Hesitating, he decided to put on his more androgynous accessories; he put on the necklace and one of the earrings that Sasha had given him. In the mirror, he looked ghostly pale. He decided to embrace it, accentuating the look with black eyeliner, mascara and some pale pinkish lip gloss that Stokely had recommended for him.

All of this took only twenty minutes, so then it was back to the television for a while. He decided to leave at seven, just in case the bus ride took a bit longer than expected. He arrived at Secord Street half an hour early according to his cell phone. Walking the final two blocks, he saw that Chris lived in an older, somewhat shoddy apartment building, neither grand nor an entire slum but somewhere in between.

He started walking a three block route, up and down Secord. This was one of those situations where thinking could only be counterproductive, and so he didn’t think. He just walked. He did several tours of the neighbourhood, and finally, it was time to go in. He walked up and opened the door to the entranceway, where there was a panel of buttons. Scanning, he found Apartment 560.

There was nothing to do but press the buzzer. He waited, shifting his weight, thinking he could still run away —

Until, with a crackle, a voice came on. “Hello?” It was a bit indistinct but it seemed to Casey like he had never heard it before. His heart started to pound.

“It’s… Casey.”

The only response was the buzz of the door being unlocked, and Casey grabbed it and went through. There were elevators to take him to the fifth floor, but he took the stairs. He didn’t let himself think as he climbed. By the time he reached the fifth floor the physical exertion had helped to settle his vital signs, but he still felt slightly sick to his stomach.

This all felt wrong. He was doing something wrong, that he shouldn’t be doing. It couldn’t possibly be okay for him.

You have to be prepared for everything to feel wrong.

Right. Yves had said that to him before he started his course in January. She had wanted him to know that he had to expect that for a while every instinct would insist that he wasn’t ready, that he was pushing himself for no good reason and he should just go home, and that would be because as far as his emotional self was concerned, this was wrong because it was new and scary and yeah, if he didn’t want new and scary then he shouldn’t do this. But if he wanted to go to school, he should.

He’d demanded of her, “But how do I know the difference between feeling wrong that isn’t really wrong and feeling wrong that is really wrong.”

“There isn’t one,” she had said. “Emotions are what they are. It’s your more reasonable self that you have to count on. You know you need to go back to school, and you know it’s going to be hard whenever you do it. Would it be better to ease in with one course or give up and wait until next fall hoping you’ll be more relaxed and then just dive in? You have to decide.”

“What would you do?”

“It doesn’t matter what I would do, Casey. This is up to you, and whatever you decide is okay. You decide who you are.”

“And people pay you big bucks for this,” he had grumbled, and gone to register, ignoring Sasha’s suggestions that he wait until summer, ignoring Zeke’s protests that he would have gone with him, ignoring the sick feeling in his gut. And it was only the fear that if he bailed he would never be able to go back that kept him coming back, kept him trying even when he just couldn’t face the classroom and the people in it.

So it was time to ignore his gut again. He could not, would not be a guy who settled down with his high school sweetheart because he was afraid of everything else. He needed to know what the world was like, in full, and he needed to know what would happen when a man touched him, really touched him.

Swallowing the taste of bile, Casey strode down the hall, searching for the number he wanted. 522…530…542…560.

He knocked.

The man who opened the door was the man he was expecting. He was wearing distressed jeans, no socks, and a t-shirt that had something to do with some world hiking tour. He smiled. “Hey, I was starting to wonder if you’d gotten lost.”

“No.” Casey sucked a breath, blurted, “You didn’t sound like you.”

“Huh?”

“On the…the intercom.”

“Oh, yeah, it’s pretty much crap. Come on in.”

Chris gestured, and Casey had no choice but to enter. The place was small, a collection of very conventional box-shaped rooms painted off-white, and it looked like any typical bachelor pad, except that one corner was filled with sports equipment. Skis, hiking gear, and other things that Casey wasn’t even sure about. There were posters of mountains taped to the walls, the kitchen was filled with dirty dishes…everything just the way it should be.

“Do you want a drink?” Chris asked.

“Um…no, thanks.”

“Okay,” Chris said, sounding both nervous and annoyed.

Casey turned from his perusal from the living room and looked at his host. He was still gorgeous, which was a definite help.

“Hey,” Chris said. “I know it’s not Shangri-La, but it’s home.”

“Oh…no, no I wasn’t thinking…”

“I’m going to have a beer.”

“Okay.”

“Have a seat.”

“Okay.”

Casey almost chose the cheap, Wal-mart armchair, and reconsidered. He wanted to seem available, after all; he sat on the couch. It seemed old; probably a hand-me-down.

“So I take it you’re a student?” Chris said, entering the living room and sitting at the other end of the couch.

“Yeah. Film studies…you?”

Chris began to fiddle with the label on his beer bottle, peeling it at one corner. “Grad student. Kinesiology.”

Knowing that Chris was in grad school eased Casey’s mind a little, for no rational reason. Maybe it was the partisan logic of a lifetime geek, but he assumed that anyone who was this committed to school must be a decent human being. “Oh.”

Chris gave him a long stare, then tipped back his bottle and drank half of it. Lowering it, he said, “Do you mind if I ask how old you are?”

“I’m twenty.”

“Ah,” Chris said and seemed to relax a bit. “You look younger.”

“I know.”

“Are you sure you don’t want anything to drink?”

“I don’t really drink.”

Chris laughed. “You’re making me feel very old.”

“No, it’s not…I mean, it’s just me...I’m not used to it.”

“No problem.” Suddenly, Chris was moving closer to him. “I’m all for healthy living, you know.” The gap closed, and they were close enough for…anything, really. “So, Casey.”

“Yeah.” Casey’s mouth was very dry.

“Have you been checking me out at the pool?”

Casey looked up, and up, seeing the easy angle of Chris’ hand gripping his bottle, the powerful flex of his neck and his strong, golden chin, and he was entirely overwhelmed. “Yes,” he whispered.

“I thought so. I’ve been checking you out too.”

“You have?” Casey was appalled to hear the question come out in the form of a squeak.

Chris laughed again — his laugh was addicting, a rich, golden sound — and at the same moment put his beer on the table and reached for Casey.

Casey cringed. He couldn’t help it and the instant it happened he was so furious at himself he wanted to run home and start smashing things. And then maybe cry for a few hours because it was all ruined, he had just totally fucked it up and there was no fixing —

Two hands held his head in a grip that was firm yet implied nothing but wanting to steady him. It was novel, the way that the hands were aligned, like some sort of kinesiology experiment on maximizing the holding while remaining loose and open, easy to switch between gentle and fierce.

“Relax,” Chris said softly.

“You just surprised me is all.”

“Sorry.”

Chris dipped his head and began to kiss him then — and could have pretty much finished kissing him at the same moment, because Chris was not a tentative kisser, he was a take-no-prisoners, zero to one thousand type of guy, using his hands to press Casey’s face in towards his. He tasted of beer and mint, and he seemed to be chuckling deep in his throat.

The sick feeling in Casey’s gut became a burn, then moved lower and flowered into a conflagration. He got hold of Chris’ shirt and he pushed; Chris willingly fell back and let Casey roll with him; he put his hand behind Casey’s neck and kept their lips in constant contact, pressing down even as he pressed up.

His dick was suddenly all that Casey could feel, even through two layers of denim. He was burning all over, twitching with a hunger that had been left unsated for far too long now. He wanted it, it was all he could think about and he didn’t care if it ripped him apart as long as he got...it inside him. But how to get it was the problem, for Chris wouldn’t necessarily believe him what with his too-young face and —

Casey tore his mouth away with some difficulty, giving the man a nip on the chin to keep from following. “Take off your shirt,” he demanded.

“You’ll have to help, you’ve got me…” But then, contradicting himself and with a magnificent display of abdominal strength, Chris raised his torso and yanked at his t-shirt, getting it most of the way in one movement. Casey finished the job for him, exposing a washboard of perfectly defined muscles. “Now you,” Chris urged.

Feeling a twinge of self-consciousness, Casey bared himself. He looked to Chris to see if he was going to laugh. The other man was now laying flat on his back with his hands beneath his head, gazing openly at Casey’s body.

“I’m kinda…not much to look at,” Casey confessed.

Chris gave him an incredulous look. “Are you kidding? All that swimming…you’re small but you look perfect…like Ganymede, maybe.”

Casey made a face. “No poetry.”

“Um…sorry.”

At Chris’ slightly crestfallen look Casey bit his lip, and by doing so managed to hold back his demand for an additional two seconds. “I want you to fuck me.”

Chris just chuckled. “Definitely no poetry.”

“No.”

“Are you on a schedule or something?”

The word jolted Casey’s memory. “Actually, I do need to phone someone at 9:00.”

“Oh...” Chris said softly, his eyes wandering away from Casey’s face. He put his hands on Casey’s chest, moving lightly, delicately even, and it annoyed him.

He snapped, “Stop that.” The

hands froze but remained where they were, lightly brushing Casey’s nipples. “Stop…?” “

Touching me like that.” “

Like what?” “

Like I’m made of glass.”

Chris looked puzzled at this. “Believe me, that’s not what I was doing. And if you don’t want to be touched, you shouldn’t parade around with this skin of yours.”

Casey felt with one foot for the floor, moving awkwardly off of Chris who continued to look up at him. “You do want to fuck me, though.”

“Well...” Chris bit his lip.

“I have condoms and stuff.”

Casey wrestled three foil-packages and a small tube out of his pocket while staring down at the perfection on the couch, at the low-slung denim. It seemed that the most natural next step was to kneel down and unzip Chris’ jeans — which he did, revealing white underwear and an enormous, damp bulge. Chris had gotten very still, just twitching as Casey peeled down the briefs, leaving them bunched just below his genitals.

It was still only the third set Casey had ever seen, not including his own. Chris’ cock was somehow perfect like the rest of him, smooth and golden, and of course circumcised. It would hardly have been aero-dynamic, otherwise. There was hair, but not nearly as much as Roy had had. Zeke was similar to Chris but uncircumcised, and his was longer and slimmer.

Would they taste the same, mostly the same, or just entirely different, Casey wondered? He could almost wish it was possible to take his camera with him, record each cock he ever came into contact with, keep them in a scrapbook with his notes...nice bouquet, good flavour... excellent body...

“What’s funny?” Chris said.

“Huh?”

“You’re smiling.”

“Oh...nothing.”

Still kneeling beside the couch, Casey leaned over and licked the tip of Chris’ cock, circling his tongue over the slit. The taste was mostly familiar, although there was a soapy tinge as though Chris had just taken a shower. “Jesus Christ,” Chris groaned, and his dick leaped, bumping against Casey’s face.

A funny thing happened suddenly. It was like a click or snap in his head and then he wasn’t just doing what he was doing, he was also standing apart from it, putting it all in frame. He could see himself kneeling there next to a strange couch in a strange apartment, tasting a strange man. He wanted to keep tasting, not have go make conversation or even acknowledge each other. Just do this without all those awkward necessities of his age and his choice of major. Would it be so wrong to keep a scrapbook of disembodied cocks? He didn’t want to make friends, he just wanted to fuck, to collect information about Chris’ body and how his own reacted to it.

Standing up, he shucked his own jeans, saw Chris’ eyes widen at the realization that he wasn’t wearing underwear.

“C’mere,” Chris said, reaching for him, but Casey shook his head. He quickly opened one of the condom packets and rolled it onto Chris’ cock, watching with some detachment the way that Chris bucked and groaned. Trembling slightly, he took the lube and prepared himself, bracing one foot on the footstool that seemed to be functioning as a coffee table. With his earlier work in the shower, he didn’t think he’d have much problem. Chris just watched him the entire time, with an odd expression. At some point, he sat up, remaining on the couch, never taking his eyes off Casey.

“Okay,” Casey said when he was ready.

“Okay…?”

“Could you…I’d like you to fuck me now.”

Chris stared a bit more, then broke abruptly into a laugh. “You know, for some reason I had the impression you were going to be inexperienced.”

Again, there was that change of perspective, almost a physical experience where Casey was thrown outside the scene, watching it. He was standing over a man, he was naked, ready to fuck but the other man was just sitting there staring at him. Staring At The Freak, that was the title of the picture. “

I’m sorry,” he said.

“For what?” Chris rolled onto his feet, towering over him once again and suddenly, Casey remembered himself to be at this man’s mercy. He wanted to bolt for a second, but he held his ground.

“Dunno,” he breathed. He stared at Chris’ chest, at the endless ropes of muscle. He leaned and breathed in, inhaling the scent. Male musk, a thing that he had encountered before, and yet this was utterly foreign.

“You’re a bit strange.”

“Sorry.”

“No, I dig it. It’s fucking hot.”

Casey looked up into Chris’ face. “So you’ll fuck me then?”

Chris’ eyes bulged in a way that was probably not meant to be scary but Casey couldn’t help but wonder and he knew he couldn’t wait for much longer; if he had to wait, he would probably run. Casting his eyes around, he recalled the presence of the footstool. “

We could use that,” he said, and he shimmied down, all the way to Chris’ feet, and moved the stool, kneeling and placing his chest flat over it.

“That’s…” Chris started.

Casey spread his legs slightly, bracing himself on his knees. “Do me...I’m ready.”

“Holy fucking shit,” he heard Chris mutter.

It was not what he was expecting, the hand on his arm. He jerked, looking up at Chris’ tanned face.

“I didn’t say I was going to,” Chris said.

“But...but I thought...”

Chris flushed a little. “Just feeling a little bit objectified right now.”

“You’re...what?”

“C’mere,” Chris said, and tugged, but Casey didn’t want to go, didn’t know how to at this moment. He couldn’t understand what Chris wanted.... okay, now this, maybe...Chris was kneeling down next to him, okay, this was...

Chris turning him, kissing him. He didn’t respond to the kiss, allowing Chris to plumb his mouth for long seconds, trying to understand what was happening until Chris pulled away, and smiled at Casey in a way that made him want to scream and run from the room. It made no sense at all when Chris’ iron-hard dick was burning a hole in Casey’s stomach.

“Hey,” Chris said. He wiped Casey’s lip with his thumb. “That’s quite a look on your face.”

“I don’t...”

“What? You don’t what?”

“...don’t know what to do.”

Chris smiled and kissed Casey once more, just a peck on the mouth. He took Casey’s hand and guided it to his cock. “How about this?”

“Kay,” Casey said, but he didn’t like it because Chris’ face was right there, looking at him and he was seeing him, seeing him...god, he couldn’t do this, he had to...he thrust and rubbed so that Chris closed his eyes and groaned, and came in very little time at all — and then there was an obscenely intimate, aching pleasure enveloping Casey’s cock, like his entire body was trying to implode and stuff itself into Chris’ liquid hand. Casey buried his face against Chris, just below his nipple, struggling to remember what he was supposed to be doing, blindly mouthing the nipple. And then he forgot that he was supposed to do anything at all. The next he knew, he had made a wet spot on Chris’ stomach, his breast.

“Whoa,” Chris whispered. “You’re intense.”

Casey had no reply. He leaned his head against Chris’s chest, exhausted.

“We need to get cleaned up, my friends will be here in a while.”

Casey lifted his head just enough to catch Chris’ eyes.

“Really,” Chris said with a smile. “I didn’t make that up. We are going out…and I hope you’ll come with.”

“I don’t…”

“You don’t have to...but I’d like it if you did.”

“Um…okay.”

“That’s more like it.”

“Need a shower.”

“We could take one together — “

“No,” Casey blurted. “Please?”

“Okay.” Chris put one foot on the floor and helped Casey to his feet. “Just make it quick okay? I don’t want to be stinking when the guys get here.”

Casey nodded and meandered in the direction where the bathroom had to be found.

“Right at the end of the hall,” Chris called. “There are towels in the closet.”

Chris’ shower had a lot more water pressure than home. Casey lost his purpose for a second and just closed his eyes, letting the liquid stream over him and pound down on him — until suddenly he was wavering, snapping to attention as he nearly lost his balance. Zoning here in a stranger’s apartment would be bad. Very bad. He washed himself quickly and got out, his heart throbbing slightly at the near disaster.

It was while he was putting his clothes back on that he heard noises — new voices, laughter, a door. It must be Chris’ friends.

Just like that, panic slammed Casey, the same kind that sometimes had him running from a classroom, even occasionally forcing him to swallow a Xanax. It felt just like that and the fact that it was the most disastrous thing that could possibly have happened right now made it worse, instantly worse. He felt himself about to curl into a ball in the middle of the bathroom and forced himself to stay upright, pacing the small room and repeating the words, the mantra: “You’re okay, you’re okay, you’re okay…okayokayokay…” His heart knocked and rattled in his chest, belying the words. “You’re okay!” he hissed. He caught his own image in the mirror and glared at himself. “Not now, you can’t. You will not!”

His internal organs stubbornly refused to cooperate. He whirled and rested his head against the door. “One,” he gulped.

Zeke’s face suddenly came to him, along with a tsunami of longing for what he could have had tonight. A quiet time on the couch, watching a movie, bantering back and forth, knowing that Zeke would never demand anything he couldn’t give. Not really, anyway.

“…tuh-two…”

His voice seemed to have degenerated to a bit of a sob.

“Thruh — “ A knock startled him so severely that he nearly screamed. “Wh-what?”

“Can I get in there?”

He didn’t know the voice. He didn’t know who was out there.

Severe measures were called for, he did know that. He put the side of his hand in his mouth and bit down until he felt genuine pain, and, with relief, felt the world around him slow down, righting itself enough that he could get some purchase on it.

“Yo, Casey...!”

“Okay,” he gulped. “Okay.”

Opening the door, he found a face that was familiar. It had been — Chris, yes, his name was Chris.

“Are you okay?” the man asked, frowning a little.

Casey nodded, not sure he could speak.

“I still need to use the shower.”

But he couldn’t make himself leave that space.

“Casey,” Chris said, a trifle impatiently. Then, at a particularly boisterous bout of laughter from the other end of the apartment, he glanced over his shoulder, back at Casey, and his tone gentled. “Let me introduce you to the guys,” he offered. He waved Casey along to the living area, where the three newcomers — three new men — were sitting.

“Hey, everyone, this is Casey.”

The strangers replied in chorus.

“Hey, man.”

“Hi.”

“Hi, Casey!”

Casey stared at them, trying to make his heart beat normally, trying to see them as they were. They were amorphous blobs that his eyes wanted to refuse, and yet at the same time his mind could catalogue things. Chris was introducing them — Casey managed to match the name Steve to that man, who was huge. He had to have been almost seven feet, and he was built like a wall; his thighs looked wider than Casey’s entire body, and his arms could have easily snapped him in two. The second man, his name was Joe or Joel, something with J anyway, and he was very obviously gay. The third…well, fuck if a pulse of white noise didn’t fill Casey’s ears just when Chris said his name, and then it was too late and in any case the stranger was staring back at Casey, hating him for some reason.

“Well, look at you!” said Joe or Joel. He had red hair and freckles, and was pretty in his own way. “Aren’t you a wee cute thing!”

“Girls,” Chris teased. “Be nice to him. I’m going to take a quickie shower.”

“Yes,” Joel drawled. “Please do.”

“Shut it! I’ll be just a sec…”

And Chris was gone, leaving Casey alone with them.

“Come and sit over here!” Joel urged, patting the couch beside himself.

Casey took a few steps towards them, but he didn’t sit. He saw the threesome exchanging glances, no doubt silently agreeing that he was a freak.

“We don’t bite,” Steve said. His voice matched the rest of him; it was one of the lowest speaking voices Casey had ever heard and fuck if this guy wasn’t a mountain. Casey had a flash of an image of himself sitting on Steve’s lap, speared by the biggest cock on the planet, and he shivered. It must be amazing — downright spiritual — to be with this guy.

“You can bite me if you want,” he heard himself say, and he smiled at Steve.

Just on the edges of his focal range, there were looks of surprise being traded around, and Steve cleared his throat noisily.

“You look like someone’s already been nibbling on you,” Joel remarked at length.

Casey shrugged; he managed a small, slightly embarrassed smile.

“So,” said the third man who hated him. “You go to the pool?”

“Yeah.”

“You going to come to the bar with us?”

Casey nodded, because he couldn’t make his throat utter the alternative, that he really would have preferred to run home but he wasn’t going to because if he did he would be a failure and he was absolutely fucking determined not to be. He owed this to Zeke, to Sasha, to Yves, to everyone who wanted him to get his head on half-way straight.

Chris must have literally taken a thirty second shower, for he reappeared an instant later. “Who wants a beer?”

“I do!” Steve said.

“Me, too,” put in the unnamed man.

“Oh,” Casey blurted.

“What’s that?” Chris said.

“We aren’t going…to the…bar now?”

"Yeah, but it’s a bit early.” Chris put a hand on Casey’s shoulder. “Why don’t you sit?”

His options were to sit next to Joel on the couch, or on the floor. He chose the floor, folding cross-legged onto the industrial carpet on one side of the coffee table.

“Are you going to have anything, Casey?” Chris asked, delivering four beers to the table.

“Milk,” said Joel as he grabbed his beer, and laughed.

Casey gave him a glare.

“Sorry. How old are you anyway?”

“Twenty,” Casey sighed.

“You get asked that a lot, I suppose,” the third man said. Casey wondered if he should just admit he had forgotten his name — or never heard it in the first place, if he was entirely honest — and get reintroduced. But then again, if he was entirely honest, he didn’t much want to be reintroduced either.

The silence that followed was not terribly comfortable. Casey wrung his brain for something to say and the only thing that squeezed out was that he was supposed to call Sasha.

“H-hey...Is it nine?”

“You have a curfew?” smirked the unnamed man.

“It’s just about nine,” Chris supplied.

“Can I use your phone?” Casey said to Chris, getting up.

“Sure,” Chris said, frowning up at him. “It’s in the kitchen.” He glared, none too subtly, at his friend.

Chris had an older model of phone affixed to the wall next to the microwave. Casey took it and stood with his back facing the living room area. He dialed the restaurant.

“Good evening, it’s Sojourn, how may I help you?”

Casey knew many of the voices by now; more often than not the phone was answered by Shari, the hostess. “Hi, Shari.”

“Hello, Casey! Would you like to speak to Sasha?”

“Yes, please.”

“Hang on, I’ll get him.”

There was a bit of a wait; then Sasha came on the line.

“Hey, kitten.”

“Sasha.”

Suddenly, and for no good reason, Casey felt a burning in the back of his throat, and in his eyes.

“Are you at that guy’s house?”

“Yeah.”

“Is everything okay?”

Casey had to take the time to swallow.

“Kitten?”

“Yeah…everything’s okay. We’re going out to a…a bar.”

“Which bar?”

“I don’t know.”

“Well, ask.”

Closing his eyes, Casey put down the receiver and called, “Chris?”

“Yeah!” Chris shouted.

“What bar are we going to?”

“Elysium!”

When Casey put the receiver back to his ear, Sasha said furiously, “I heard that. It’s not a bar, it’s a club and it’ll be packed. We were thinking of going there on Saturday night.”

“Well…it’s only Tuesday…”

“Doesn’t matter, it’s always packed. Kitten, why won’t you just wait?”

The fear turned sour, and past sour it twisted and became anger. Sasha had promised not to give him any fucking grief. “Sasha — “

“I’m just saying.”

“Why shouldn’t I?” Casey hissed into the phone.

“Because I’ll take you there myself, in a few days. You just have to wait — “

“This’ll be a warm-up.”

“Casey,” Sasha groaned.

“I’m going.”

“Yeah, I guess you are.”

“I’m hanging up now.”

“Be careful, Casey. Please be careful.”

“Bye.” He hung up, slamming the phone a bit harder than he had intended.

“Everything okay?” Chris asked when he got back to the living room.

“Yeah,” Casey said. “It’s fine.”

 

But it wasn’t, even if he was in Elysium. He couldn’t enjoy it, couldn’t even move.

The beat and the words were a blur, shaking Casey deep in his gut as a man’s voice intoned over the speakers: I can’t sleep…I gotta…get some sleep… Everything was broken and divided, a steady, pounding pulsating thing that had taken over so he was counting ten… eleven… twelve in sync with the drum beat.

“You wanna dance?!”

With that, Casey was jolted from his numbers. He looked up at the enormous Steve who was standing in front of their booth, directing his baritone shout at Casey.

Some time ago, Chris had said he was going up to the bar to get some drinks; he’d asked Casey if he wanted one and Casey, thinking with longing of the ten minutes back in that bar in Butler Lake when he’d felt liberated and giddy, had surrendered and said yes. That was twenty minutes ago, and Casey had been sitting here alone in the booth for most of it. Joel was up dancing and the other man, the one who hated him, was nowhere to be found. Casey couldn’t blame them for deserting him; he’d been plastered to the vinyl seat since the moment they’d walked in, overwhelmed and blank with terror for whole minutes at a time as the noise in the club deafened and drowned consciousness of now and here. When he did come back, his eyes couldn’t quite comprehend what appeared to be walls and piles and mountains of male flesh.

“You wanna dance?” Steve bellowed again, even louder.

Casey examined the moving morass on the dance floor, and swallowed down the fresh wave of terror. This was like the ultimate test and he couldn’t fail at this. He could not fail…and at least, it was mostly dark. The flashing lights and the disco ball and the smoke only served to obscure knowledge of other human forms. That was a good thing, at least.

“Okay!” he said. It came out late and wrong and probably not audible, so Casey just moved, sliding out of the booth and walking directly to the floor, not waiting to see if Steve was there behind him.

But he was there, when Casey decided his nerve could take him no further and he stopped. He started to move to the beat, the motion highly unfamiliar to him. He’d never really done this before…but the next bit of good news was that the bodies all around disguised him, and Steve wasn’t much of a dancer himself.

It was nothing but rhythm and flesh here. Bodies on all sides, touching…they couldn’t help touching each other, all of them, there was no way not to. Casey closed his eyes and concentrated with every neuron on not freaking out. His mouth was so dry he could barely swallow. No danger from them, he rattled off in his head, rattled to himself, no danger because he was them, he ruled them I am the alien queen he was safe from them, I am the alien queen I can say no I can say no I can I can I am and They couldn’t hurt themselves he was Them and They were him.

Someone shouted something. He opened his eyes, saw Steve looking expectantly down and he shook his head, pointing to his ear. Steve nodded, and then moved closer to Casey. He put his hand around Casey’s waist, pulling him in closer. Bodies disappeared and dissolved, coalesced into one body, one body that dwarfed him utterly. He smelled musk and an old-fashioned kind of cologne. He closed his eyes and imagined Steve as though from some commercial, hewing logs bare-chested in the forest, riding a horse across a plain, and he could feel muscles like stone under his hands.

It occurred to him that dancing could be like swimming. The music and the bodies moving to music were only the water he was in right now, and safe in the way that the water was safe. The music changed but didn’t change, the pulse of it continuous like liquid itself, and he could, after all, just let it have him. He could be a creature that belonged to it, just barely attached to the ocean floor and waving to and fro, floating in a sea of randomness.

There was pressure against the small of his back and a powerful current moving him back and forth. Time abandoned him.

Now he was nudged and he opened his eyes, surprised to find that he was standing up on a dance floor, coloured lights flashing past and the blond Nordic god was smiling and holding out a glass of something. Casey took it and nodded thank you, then drank it down as quickly as possible. It was slightly bitter but also sweet. The Nordic god took the glass away from him. “My turn!” he seemed to shout, and took Casey’s hand.

Within a few minutes Casey could feel the alcohol all the way through his body, and it was good to discover that some of the things he had been so worried about weren’t really all that important. Even the aliens didn’t matter, and it wasn’t even like they weren’t around but he just didn’t seem to care, and he was content to move against hard flesh to the hard beat. He thought that the joints in his hips were loosening and he was actually moving with rather than against and he liked it. He didn’t want this one to stop, to just keep going until his legs crumbled or he disappeared entirely.

He was jolted, unexpectedly. Detached from the molten flow that he’d been pressed into.

“Let’s go sit down for a bit!” the god shouted in his ear, trying to tug him away.

“No!” he whined and pulled back.

The pull disappeared and the next thing he knew, he was dancing alone. He didn’t want to stop this, just like he sometimes didn’t want to leave the water. It was a refuge, and sacred place amidst a many that were yet no one and nothing. He closed his eyes and just existed there.

There was something in the small of his back again, a different hand, new hand, an opportunity for more and again and oh, fucking god, he looked up to see Steve’s smile and plastered himself against Steve, and there was Steve’s cock distinct against his stomach and fuckingjesusfuckinggod, it was enormous. Casey began to tremble and Steve was tugging him closer and closer, nearly rubbing on him. Soon, there was an unmistakable patch of damp on his shirt.

The size and the fucking unbelievably hard was a thrust of an idea that wouldn’t go away; it seemed that this thing was proportional to the man himself and what it would feel like to have something thing big inside him? Not that there was anything wrong with any of the cocks he’d experienced thus far, but this was something truly extraordinary, and would it feel as good or would it just fucking hurt, and did he have the ability to do this with a man he’d barely spoken to? He and Chris were best friends by comparison to Steve.

Casey slid his hand down in between their two bodies and massaged the granite bulge. There was a lurch and a thrust, and then Steve had him by the shoulder and was guiding him somewhere, steering him in between bodies. A door loomed up — Exit, it said, in red — and then they were standing in an alleyway.

Nor were they the only ones. Everyone was busy with their own pleasures, ignoring each other.

Steve pushed him up against the wall of the adjacent building. His face touched cool, slick concrete while big hands yanked down his pants. “You want it?” Steve panted in his ear.

The big body was covering Casey’s…literally covering him. It made him shake with need, that image. Cool, moist Seattle air brushed his thighs while inside his shirt he sweated. “Yes,” he gasped. “No, no...wait!”

“Whah...?”

“Condom.”

“I’ve got it under control.”

The hands were rough, neither harsh nor gentle. Business-like, calloused but competent. There was activity behind him, and the sound of zipper and other matter-of-factness. Those hands opened him and massaged his hole with greasy lubricant, just long enough to get him juiced up before a stone monster was pressing its advantage. He couldn’t believe the size of it; he mewled and squirmed a bit and his body tried to flinch.

“Stop?” Steve whispered.

“No.”

Brute force yanked on his thighs, pulling his legs wider. He bent and rested his head against the wall and breathed into the impalement, putting all his concentration into Being. Relaxed. There were moments when he feared losing his own arousal, but then the mere thought of having that thing inside him would have him rigid all over again, and more so. The fact that he barely knew the man was nothing to him. This, it was knowing him now in the only way he wanted.

When at last Steve was crammed entirely within him he was full to bursting, struggling for breath.

“Okay,” Steve grunted. “Okay.”

“Please,” Casey gasped.

“Ready?”

“Ready…please, fuck me. Fuck me hard.”

One of Steve’s arms moved across his torso, holding him like an iron band just at his lower ribs, and then Steve’s hips moved smoothly, and Casey was scalded by sensation. There was something beyond pain or pleasure or the mixture of them and he had found it.

“Harder!” he snarled.

“I don’t want to…”

“Harder…do me harder!”

He didn’t know if he made any sound. He might have been silent, or screaming for all he could tell. He could feel his own pulse hammering away in his head and hoped that he wouldn’t have a stroke before he could cum. He hoped he would live through it…but of course he would. His vision merely went entirely white for a time, while his body jerked like some helpless creature caught on a live wire.

He knew he had spattered on the ground, he had lived through it except it wasn’t over because he was still pierced and split apart. He was conscious of a hand on his neck and his turned, twisted, pressing his hot face against the brick, grunting with each power-fuck-thrust. His eyes opened to see a face, a complete stranger standing there staring at him. The man had his cock out and was stroking himself, his eyes bright as he watched the live sex show in front of him. Casey wanted to tell him to fuck off but he couldn’t get a word out. His mouth was open but he couldn’t control the shape of it.

“Guhd!” Steve said, right behind Casey. “Oh, guh-god! God! Fuck!” He began pistoning in and out as though everything up to that point had been a warm-up, and Casey wondered if his eyes were rolling up into his head and if he was going to wake up shortly on the ground, curled up in a puddle of cum.

Everything vanished except the rod that was holding him up, even the name of the person pressing against him. There was no person, there was just…it blinding him, it taking him, it grunting in his ear and squeezing his shoulder so hard there would have to be a bruise at some point. He was aware of a pressure on his chest and a burning in his knees and hands and he was being shoved forward with every jolt but he didn’t want it to stop.

The thing within him spasmed and seemed to give way just the tiniest bit. It stopped moving, just stood there heaving for a while with his cock stuck exactly where it had been. Even flaccid, it was impossibly huge.

When Steve finally removed it, Casey couldn’t help a moan. He felt like he was gaping wide open, hollow and light enough to blow away — but the man caught him, turning him to face him and brushing the tears away from his eyes with a peculiar gentleness.

“You all right?” Steve panted.

Casey nodded, dazed to realized that it was true.

Steve pawed himself and removed a condom that Casey hadn’t even known, just trusted that he had been wearing. There was a twinge of anxiety suddenly, of the just-got-lucky, just-could-have-been-fucked variety. He pulled up his pants, his hands shaking so badly he could barely do them up.

“You,” Steve said, “are fucking amazing.”

Casey continued to struggle with the snap on his jeans.

“I’m serious. Can we get together again?”

“Yes,” Casey whispered. He cleared his throat. “I mean…fuck, yes.”

Steve made a deep, throaty sound. A laugh. Casey looked up and met Steve’s eyes for a second, and saw a friendly acknowledgment of his lack of composure at that moment. Steve chuckled again, and grasped Casey’s arm gently, leading him back inside.

They returned to their booth, where both Chris and another drink were waiting for Casey. Chris gave them both an odd face; Steve looked straight back at Chris and shrugged with bare apology. He sat down and gave Chris a friendly punch in the arm.

Casey didn’t particularly want to sit. He didn’t want this feeling to stop, this strange sensation like he was aware of every nerve in his body. He reached across the table for his drink, giddily wondering if his asshole would snap back into shape someday.

“You two have fun?” Chris said suddenly, loudly. It sang over the trance beat.

Casey stared at Chris over the rim of his glass, and was annoyed, not in the least because his high was dissolving much too soon. He had been shimmering somehow, he was sure of it, and now he was dull like before. He was alone and empty.

“Sorry, man,” Steve said. But he didn’t sound very sorry.

“Well hey, no problem.” Chris stared over at Casey, deliberately making eye contact. “It’s not like we’re a couple.”

Just to let him know how soundly he agreed with that statement, Casey slammed down his empty glass and went back out to the dance floor.

He could get it back, if he tried. He was sure he could get it back, and in any case, it was too good not to try.

Somewhere and sometime out there, he found Joel at the centre of a small circle of watchers. The man had bared himself from the waist up and was writhing like a red-haired succubus, no doubt aware of the eyes on him and reveling in them. His was a sinuous, epicene beauty; his build was a bit on the slender side, yet wiry, reminiscent of Johnny Depp. Casey watched him dance and felt the renewal of arousal despite the fact that this wasn’t really his type.

Joel caught his eye. A smirk creased his face, and he gestured to Casey, inviting him to join him.

Casey had two or three ounces of whatever Chris had been feeding him to help him along, and he was fearless. There came a moment when you couldn’t stop trying to stop being afraid, you just had to be afraid and yet do what you did. And so he moved out into the centre and glued his eyes to Joel’s, letting them guide him and erase the fact that they were both being watched now. Joel grabbed him and pulled him in so close that their hips were mashed together, and put both hands on Casey’s shoulders. His mouth dipped in, kissing lightly…then backing up, he reached for the bottom of Casey’s shirt. He tugged it up and Casey raised his arms, letting him remove it.

Soon they were skin to skin, groin to groin, and Joel was showing him just how much could be done with merely the mouth, lips and tongue. His skills were arcane and magical, overcoming Casey’s every attempt to stay with him, removing his will and replacing it with his own. Casey would have done anything to continue being kissed that way, like it was part of their dance and like a dance was a spell that Joel liked to weave around helpless little boys like Casey for the pleasure of the audience.

They weren’t dancing suddenly because there was a gap in the music but Joel had taken complete possession of his mouth, plundering him with a hand pressed at his neck, and he was riding Joel’s leg. Cheers surrounded them, mingled with whistles and encouraging shouts.

Joel tore his mouth away from Casey, leaving him seeking for it blindly. There was a high drone in his ears and he couldn’t find his bearings…couldn’t find that wonderful mouth or get enough friction between their cocks. His vision cleared slightly and he saw Joel grinning at him. Rage pulsed through him suddenly. He pushed Joel in the chest, pushed him back and grabbed at his shirt from the hands of one of the nearby watchers. He bolted in the direction of the bathroom.

It was filled with men, again, engaged in all sorts of transactions, not all of them legal, he supposed. He yanked on his black shirt and pushed through to the sink; he bent down, splashing cool water on his face. The whine in his ears remained from exposure to the speakers, and he was dizzy from the mixture of alcohol and medication.

“Exhibitionist,” drawled a voice.

He straightened quickly, and saw Joel in the mirror behind him, topping him by a half a foot or so. “What?” he gulped.

“You’re an exhibitionist at heart.”

“Not.”

“Oh, yeah. You are. You loved having those guys watching you.”

Casey shook his head.

“You know what I thought when I saw you tonight at Chris’ place?”

“Am I supposed to care?” Casey sneered, his heart racing.

Joel sidled closer, pushing him close to the sink. He whispered in Casey’s ear, his breath hot and almost wet, “I thought…here’s a little twink trying to play with the big boys.”

“Fuck you.”

“Nah…not really.”

Joel had him pressed all the way against the sink now, and Casey had nowhere to go. Joel was painted all along his back.

“’m no twink.”

Taking his earlobe in his teeth, Joel growled, “Show me.”

“H-huh?”

“C’mere.”

He was spun around and walked towards the stalls. They were all taken, but Joel pounded on one and shouted, “Hey! Go get fucked up somewhere else!”

Casey didn’t expect anything to happen, but to his amazement, the door opened and three guys came out, glaring at Joel. Joel stepped in backwards, tugging Casey with him and shutting the door. The idea of making it in the bathroom had kept Casey from resisting — until this moment when he suddenly conceived a brand new panic. He tried to pull on the door but Joel yanked him back and slammed him against the wall, not especially hard but forcefully enough to communicate who was in charge.

Casey started to struggle. “Let me go — “

Joel shook his head and pushed Casey’s arms up above his head, holding his wrists. “Shh, shh, shh…take it easy, little boy.”

“I’m not — “

“It’s okay,” Joel whispered. He licked Casey’s lips. “Shh, there we go…relax…” His mouth opened Casey’s, parting his lips; his tongue plunged and drew back with serpentine speed. “You’re very pretty, you know. Pretty, pretty…prettier than me.” He kissed Casey again, this time yanking on his hair and forcing his jaw wide and bending his head at an angle that made his neck hurt. His hips jabbed and thrust around Casey’s groin, pushing him hard against the metal wall. Casey could feel the stall shake slightly with each thrust and he just surrendered to it, waiting to see how it would play out.

It was, in the end, brusque and dissatisfying: Joel letting him go long enough to unbutton his jeans, not Casey’s, but his own, rutting up against Casey with no finesse, just using him as a source of friction for as long as it took to come.

When he was finished, he reached for Casey, saying, “Here, let me do you — “

Casey shoved him, catching him by surprise. Joel hit the opposite wall and stared briefly at Casey, the stare quickly turning into a knowing smirk.

“Suit yourself,” he said. Deftly, he cleaned himself up with a bit of toilet paper and pulled up his pants. He pushed open the door. “See you round.”

Casey waited a second, then slammed the door shut and locked it. Closing his eyes, he wished himself at home right then. His head hurt and he felt slightly nauseous, and he had to admit that it was just possible the whole experiment was ill-conceived.

On the other hand, data was data. The feeling-sick-to-his-stomach, the cum splashes on him, the pain in his head, all of this was information so there was nothing right or wrong about any of this. It was what it was...and really, he wasn’t going to regret being speared by the biggest cock in the world. And he didn’t regret Chris, and he didn’t even really regret Joel.

There was a soft knock on the door. He thought he must have imagined it at first, and so he ignored it. But then it happened again, so he pulled the door open. Just outside was Chris’ friend without a name, the man who hated him. “Hey there,” the man said.

Casey stared.

“What ‘cha doing?”

Okay, so data was data and maybe he was tired and he really wanted a shower but data was data, data was data was data and he hadn’t felt anything lately like that wondrous out in the alley with that cock so far up inside him, his mind full of white. It couldn’t just be Steve who could do that, there was no magic about that cock unless it was the size — or was it the motionoftheocean, hahaha, god, fuck, he was losing it here but it couldn’t just be Steve, it couldn't, it had to be something about the fucking —

“Joel tells me you’re going round robin tonight. You wanna go for four?”

Casey sucked a breath. “Where?”

“Right here, right now.”

There was no need to consider; he was right in the middle of this and riding it to its conclusion. He nodded.

The stranger stepped inside and Casey was going to stretch up and kiss him, but he slipped past Casey. Straddling the toilet, he exerted pressure on Casey’s shoulders to push him down, down onto his knees on the floor. He stared down at Casey, who found himself yet again stepping out of his mind, viewing the scene from above — the man standing above him with legs splayed, himself kneeling there, and it was so fucking hot, the idea of being helpless and controlled by this complete and hateful stranger just because he was another man with another cock. Casey reached up without a word and unbuckled, unzipped.

Yet another cock sprang out, brushing his lips. His mouth opened and he took it in, just holding it in his mouth while he catalogued the taste. This one was salty where Chris’ had been dry and slightly bitter. Same yet different. Same yet different, same...yet...

He was losing his grip on things. By now, he could tell. There was white all around the edges of his vision, nothing but that which was right in front of his eyes.

“Well?” the cock said.

Casey sucked it down, all the way to the root, embracing the slick heat with his throat, impassively recognizing the thrust that followed as a kind of uncontrolled appreciation for his skill. He waited for the gag reflex to subside, then began to rock and bob on the dick in his mouth, breathing carefully through his nose. The cock undulated and groaned, putting both hands on the metal walls to brace itself.

“Fuck…fucking fuck…you’re good.”

But he wasn’t — he was a bit out of practice, or maybe it was just that he had been mixing booze and Paxil because he was getting dizzy...dizzier. He backed up, letting the cock slip from his mouth.

“What? Why’d you stop?” the thing complained.

So he licked the underside of his rod, moving up to the tip and swirling his tongue around the slit. His mind was full of cock, smooth, scalding, velvet-covered iron and he wasn’t quite as concerned about oxygen now, was going to plunge down on it again when suddenly two hands grabbed Casey’s head and the cock told him, “I want to fuck your mouth.”

This was something he had never done, not really. Roy had loved to lie still while Casey did all the work, and so did Zeke, and while sometimes they would lose control and thrust too hard, neither had ever done him like this, just using his mouth, taking all control away from him.

The cock battered the back of his throat, grunting with each thrust until there were droplets spattering Casey’s face and his clothes, and there was a whisper, “Yeah…oh, yeah…that’s good...so...unhh....!”

And Casey stared down at his shirt, brushing futilely at the stains.

He flinched when the man cupped his chin, looked up into a smug, hateful pair of eyes. The man wiped a smear of semen from Casey’s cheek, and putting the smeared finger against Casey’s lower lip he said, “We should all do this again sometime.”

Casey thought about that, and the answer moved in his head: Yes.

The guy he had just sucked off stood there staring at him for a bit, then said boredly, “Oh, god, what?”

It made no sense, until Casey touched his face and felt wetness there. And there was no answering, nothing to say to a guy whose cock you’d just sucked with complete willingness, right before you started crying.

“What the fuck? I didn’t fucking do anything.”

Casey looked up and they were staring at each other, each watching the other. He watched the progress of the man’s face from horror to anger, blurring behind a sheen of salt water and panic.

“Stop that, would you? Stop fucking crying.”

This was really a moment that should be captured on film — him on his knees on the floor, cum all over him and he couldn’t, he couldn’t stop... just couldn’t he was fucked and he was fucked up and that was nothing new except he hadn’t been hadn’t been he was doing so well and not fucked up-over-out, not so much in such a long time now, and he should have known better than to think all that was over, he should have known better than to try what he had tried, but he really had felt like he needed to…no, he did need to…

He was up and out of the stall, out of the bathroom and then out of the club, running home.

Coming out of his skin had happened to him before. He knew what it was to come apart and yeah, this was him, was him coming apart. He needed rescue, he remembered how a long time ago if he waited and waited, rescue would come but only on his terms — Roy’s terms, but he didn’t like to think about Roy at all because there was no point, Roy was gone and good riddance — except no one could rescue him like Roy, no one but it was his own damn fault. He knew that, he just fucking knew. He was doing this to himself, always, no one else, it would start and then he only needed to be himself to get to this place of coming apart. It started, every time he thought he was almost past it.

No camera this time but he could see himself, like before, but now it was the shutter gone wild, out of control images whirling past his eyes until he was opening and slamming his door, searching for the one thing, the one thing that could make it all stop although he didn’t quite know how.

He found the phone and he dialed, his eyes rushing this way and that, staring at the walls. “Hold me in,” he whimpered. “Hold me in, hold me in…” It was home, this was an image of home he was seeing but still a lie, another fucking lie because he wasn’t safe, not safe since he’d come open like this. Falling wide open, he was, and it was his own fault, always his fault.

“Zeke,” he whispered. He vibrated and he shook, clinging to the phone with every nerve in his body. “Zeke...Zeke...”

“Casey?”

“Zeke?”

“It’s...not Zeke, Casey, it’s Stokes...”

The rest of what she said was drowned out by the noise of himself falling, still falling, and he almost screamed, almost shouted a bunch of things at her because she was not Zeke and she should have known better than to try it.

“You want to talk to Zeke?”

“Yeah...need to...”

There was noise, conversation somewhere out there, words he couldn’t make out and oh, god, oh, fuck, one thing entered his mind with certainty -- that he didn’t deserve Zeke, he didn’t deserve to be talked to. Zeke was a hero his hero, the hero who is always giving him things like all he wanted was one fucking kiss one touch one fuck but Casey couldn’t even give him that much, why should Zeke ever get on that phone and talk to him?

“Talk to him!” he heard Stokely say, and he bit his lip, distantly noticing the sting of it and thinking he should hang up rather than let that emptiness at the other end continue except suddenly the emptiness there was full of Zeke.

“Casey?”

Hold me in., he said, except he didn’t actually say it. He choked a name and then again.

“Yeah?” Zeke said impatiently, and then: “What is it, Case?”

Hold me in.

He could speak — really, he could. He could beg. He could do all those things, he had no shame. “Can you c-come over?”

A flurry of questions came, things that defied any kind of sensible answer: “Why? Sasha’s at work? Can you call him?”

Zeke was not going to come. He was not going to help and it served Casey right. He tried not to whine or whimper although he was whimpering, really. He was sniveling and cowardly, always was, all he ever wanted was for someone to hold him, hold him in, tell him it was okay and he’d screwed it all up by wantingexpectingneeding too much.

Then. He thought he heard: “I’ll be right there.”

“Kay,” he whispered.

 

A body all but covered his, again. Again, he felt the broad, capable hands opening him, and then the tip of his cock, so familiar so very...especially now, tonight. Again, he closed his eyes and forced himself to relax, sighing the tension out. A rigid heat was filling him, filling up...filling out, filling out until he was absolutely crammed full for a second time that night.

Except not again, after all, not a second time. A first. Because this time he was Casey here, and this was Zeke. Zeke who always helped, who always saved him when he asked. No one else did that.

He gasped, struggling to not move and thus tear himself open. His heart seemed to be beating right against the surface beneath him, opening a crater in his chest.

“Shh!” Zeke commanded, and Casey felt a slap...oh, fuck how he felt, he just felt....he felt. There was some burning but it was good. It was so...good. He could feel Zeke’s pulse, overriding his, forcing him to beat to another’s rhythm.

Zeke, he whispered to himself, chanted it Zeke... Zeke... Zeke... and said it out loud “Zeke...Zeke...” He was gulping it, gasping, clinging to the fabric under his hands and his face. “Z-Zeke...”

“Shh...”

“Zeke.”

“Unh...ungh...unh...”

And he saw it in his mind, another shot, an image of something that wasn’t just a thing trapped and constructed and made up for the moment. It was true enough for his eye, in his head, calendar-perfect, a real thing.

In his mind, Zeke was with Casey, fucking Casey, and it was perfectly obvious that Zeke loved Casey.

 

The water was warm-hot this time. Still smooth, though, permeable liquid over permeable skin. Casey closed his eyes and felt it run, waiting for the soft, white haze to build up around him. His body sang and sparked, aching in all the right places, and he sighed.

But it wasn’t happening, not so much. He felt good, yeah, but instead of wanting to stand there in the shower for half an hour, he was intensely conscious of the fact that Sasha was making breakfast and Zeke would want to take his shower before he ate.

Casey opened his eyes, blinking away water, and looked for the soap. There would be time to zone. He would go to the pool, as usual, and then to see Yves. God, he had a million things he wanted to tell her, plus a few more that he didn’t.

He was dry, and dressed within fifteen minutes, padding out to the kitchen with his hair curled damp against his neck while Zeke took his turn. Halfway down the hall he saw Sasha standing at the stove cooking eggs, and he reversed direction to get his camera from his bedroom. He had a sudden, desperate need to take a picture that was non-abstract – like, a picture of a guy in his pajamas, hair askew, cooking eggs.

“Whoa, hold it,” Sasha complained, seeing Casey approach with the camera raised in front of him.

“Come on.”

Sasha held up a hand, making like Garbo warding off the paparazzi. “No. No way.”

With a pout, Casey relented. Placing the camera on the nearest bit of open counter, he shuffled up to Sasha and stood alongside him, peering down at two, perfectly shaped exhibits of sunny-side-up. “Pretty,” he said.

“One for you?”

“Yeah.”

“Butter the toast, would ‘ya, kitten?”

As Casey bent over to fetch the butter-alternative from the fridge, a spur of pain struck somewhere intimate, traveling halfway up his back. He couldn’t quite keep from grunting out loud, and as he straightened, he knew Sasha had heard it, because Sasha would have been watching and listening for signs a hundred times more subtle and concealed than an actual groan of pain. That small but audible sound was like a shout just now.

Casey pulled a knife out of the drawer and began the lather not-butter on the first couple of pieces of toast.

“Are you going to tell me about last night?” Sasha asked quietly.

“Yeah,” Casey replied. “But not right now, okay?”

Sasha uttered the deepest, most laden of sighs. Down the hall, there was a sound of a door quietly opening — Zeke emerging from the steamy climate of the bathroom.

Casey popped more bread in the toaster, while Sasha carefully removed the two finished eggs to a plate.

Minutes later, Zeke was coming down the hall. He walked right up to the entrance to the kitchen, and Casey was seized with a sudden dread. He knew — just knew – that Zeke was going to try to kiss his neck or hug him or otherwise cuddle him and he didn’t think he could take that right now. It was too significant, too much.

But it didn’t happen. Zeke poured himself some coffee and took a plate of eggs and toast to the dining table while Casey felt weak-kneed with relief. He actually had to put both hands flat on the counter for a second, prompting Sasha to look at him with concern.

“Hey, Case,” Zeke called. “Would you bring me the salt?”

Casey drew a long, long breath. “Yeah,” he said.

The wave was passing.

He grabbed the salt from its home on the stove ledge, and then, acting on inspiration, grabbed his camera too. Coming around the wall that separated the kitchen from the dining area, he saw Zeke staring pensively at nothing, using every last one of his I.Q. points from the look of it. Knowing he had only seconds, Casey lifted the camera and snapped a shot, surrendering everything to the gods of serendipity and auto-focus.

When the flash went off, Zeke half-jumped, spinning in his chair. “Casey! Would you just give it a rest?”

“No,” Casey said, and placed the salt shaker near Zeke’s hand.

“You must have at least a hundred pictures of me by now.”

“Not the right one.”

Zeke scowled in that way that only Zeke could; it a look that said Just like I thought. I am the only sane person left in the world. “I really don’t like having my picture taken.”

“I know.”

“You’ve got me asleep, awake, in the Mustang, on the couch, drinking coffee...”

“But I want a picture of you.”

Zeke stopped. He blinked up at Casey, apparently stricken.

Then he shrugged, reached for the salt. He salted his eggs, took up his fork and ate half of one egg in a single bite. Washing it down with a slurp of coffee, he grunted, “Okay.”


	4. Chapter 4

It’s been slow tonight. Well, not really slow, just...not quite so insane as usual. Most nights, there’s no time for breathing, never mind taking a piss or a second to chat with a coworker. Not even time to taste a little bit of the foie-gras-pancetta-black-current stuffed chicken breast that went out and came back because somebody decided they didn’t like it. But business does tend to die down in the thick of summer like this. It’s the end of July, you know? Prime time for outdoor eating. People go camping and picnicking and they have that annual love affair with their grill. It’s been like this every July that I can remember.

Six of them. That's six years working here. I guess you could say I know the ropes.

Anyway, it’s nothing to worry about. It’ll start picking up in August at some point, and then by September everything will be full-throttle again. For now, we all kind of enjoy the lull. Like, for instance, I enjoy how by eleven o’clock the place has cleared out, the tables have been cleaned and reset, I’ve settled up with the bussers and the kitchen, and now I’m sitting at the bar waiting for Sasha to finish his end-of-shift routine. He'll be getting things prepped for tomorrow, talking to Dobie, the head chef. Whatever. It changes from week to week, night to night, and I don’t always pay attention to what the chefs are doing. The floor, that’s my domain. My first job was in a hotel, mostly wedding banquets, and I’ve been doing pretty much the same thing ever since.

I take pride in my work, you know. I know some people probably look at me and wonder when I’m going to grow up and get a real job. Even Ma and Pop thought that for a while, just until they came to the restaurant a few years back for their anniversary. My treat, of course, and I served them, and after that I never again heard one of those little asides that I just so treasure. No more “Look, here’s an ad for Seattle College, hon” or “Edith Pucci’s son just graduated from medical school, did you know?” I’ve actually heard them brag about what I do, about all the important people I know who wave at me on the street like we’re pals. The Mayor of Seattle asks for me by name, when he’s in for dinner, so the way my folks figure it, I am a pretty cool and powerful dude even if I am just bringing the guy his supper.

Of course I have dreams of maybe doing something with a little more prestige. One of them involves owning my own little restaurant, but that’s for a long time from now.

Another one has to do with one Sasha Johanssen. I want him to move in with me, preferably to an apartment that we would choose together. But I know it’s not going to happen any time soon. I don’t even have to ask him.

See, I conducted the conversation in my own head, playing both parts myself.

I’ve been thinking...what would you say to moving in with me...or finding a new place that could be all ours...moving in together?

This is where Sasha does this thing that he does where he can look happy and sad at the same time. Holy Mother of God in Heaven, but I love his eyes. They’re this deep brown and I swear they glow sometimes. They have the most amazing warmth I’ve ever seen in another human being. Casey’s got nothing on those, if you ask me.

Oh, hon, he says. I would like to. Really I would, but...I just can’t.

Because of Casey, I say.

And he gives me his sharpest stare, as much as he can be sharp. The wondering if I do not like Casey or resent him or am jealous of him, in which case, Sasha will choose between the two of us and I know exactly how that turns out.

Of course, I love Casey. He’s an adorable little shit. Plus, he loves Sasha to pieces, which shows pretty good judgment on his part. Believe me, that makes a huge difference in my book, the way he’s so devoted and grateful and sweet to my boyfriend. I just wish that Sasha could let him be one of these days. Casey can handle it, I swear. He may be a bit fucked up but hey, aren’t we all? Okay, maybe a little more than a little bit, but the thing is that he seems to have figured out a way to live with it.

I know, I know... Sasha feels responsible for him because he was there when the legendary Roy was in the picture. No matter how far Casey comes — and he’s come pretty fucking far — Sasha can’t seem to stop worrying and fretting. Sasha has this almost sick need to be needed, you know?

So yeah, I don’t even need to have the apartment conversation because I know how it goes. Sasha says, I’m sorry and it’s too soon meaning too soon for Casey to be on his own.

I will just have to be patient. I can do that. Even if it feels like it’s been years and years, this whole drama with the three of them, I know it hasn’t been long. I think it still qualifies as what Ma would call “a rough patch.” Casey’s just a child, just turned twenty for fuck sake. And Zeke...even if he acts like he’s a hundred sometimes, I still think he’s just a little kid playing grown-up.

And speaking of… well, here comes my baby.

It still takes me by surprise sometimes, how tall he is. He's got something like half a foot on me, and I'm no shrimp. He's wearing his whites, pulling his cap from his head and smiling. He busses me a kiss somewhere near my jaw, which is just about all he's willing to do in public. “Hey.”

“Hey. You sound tired.”

“That’s because I am.” Sasha is sighing, rubbing his head. He does that a lot.

“It wasn’t that busy.”

“No...”

Of course, I know what’s bothering him. I wait, and I sip my Cointreau. So I like to treat myself to a shot of the fifty-year-old stuff after my shift...so sue me. I believe in enjoying the good things in life, and with what I’m making in tips these days, I can afford it. I don’t have any debts to speak of, and I drive a cheap car.

“Casey called.”

Twenty years from now when we’re all middle-aged and presumably too grown up for it, Sasha will be forcing Casey to call him at the appointed hour, to check in.

“Where’d he call from?”

“Home.”

I sit back and grin, performing my usual role of Mr. Don't Worry So Much. “See, he’s back already — “

“They’re back.”

“Huh?”

“That guy is in my home.” Sasha coughs, mumbles, “Paul Bunyon is in my apartment.”

I shrug, trying not to look like I have an opinion, because I know he takes this a lot more seriously than me. Last weekend we were all treated to our first sight of ...Paul Bunyon, as Zeke called him. We ran into him at the club, this absolutely enormous guy and it was pretty obvious that he and Casey knew each other. Maybe not well, but well enough. Long story short, Zeke and Sasha were not pleased. Casey has been very, very pleased, from what I hear, and it sounds like he’s not done being pleased either.

Now I have no problem with this whatsoever as long as no one gets hurt. Except — well, the problem is that Zeke keeps putting himself in positions where hurting is just inevitable.

As you might expect ever since Casey and Zeke started up again, there’s been a lot of fighting. Oh, pardon me. Not fighting. According to Zeke, it’s discussing. It just happens to look and sound like fighting.

No one’s exactly sure how this happened. All we know is Casey decided to go out partying with some guy. Not Bunyon, some other guy named Chris and that was how he met this other dude — whose real name happens to be Steve, I think.

And just to make it all that much more confusing, the next morning Sasha found Zeke in Casey’s room.

 

It took my baby a few hours to decide if he was happy or concerned about Zeke and Casey spending the night together. Of course, in the end he went with concerned, but he choked on it in the interest of maintaining the peace.

Later that day we went to the Bayview for a quick dinner. Everything was great until after we had finished eating. We were sitting there just chatting and this was where Zeke let it slip that he wanted to move back in with Casey and Sasha. Actually, I think how he put it was, “With my stuff and your stuff and Sasha’s stuff...the apartment’s going to be really full.”

Sasha’s head jerked up and he shot me this panicky sort of look, like I was supposed to do something.

Now, I don’t mind admitting that I kind of like the idea of Zeke moving back. It would make it more possible for Sasha to move in with me if he knew that Zeke was going to be around all the time. Of course that’s just a theory and as far as Sasha is concerned, Zeke is one of the things that he has to protect Casey from, and as much as I wish I could laugh that off, I can’t. Zeke adores Casey, yeah. It’s scary how much, and even if I’m sure most of the time he’d rather eat his own arm than hurt Casey...you never know. I really think that love isn’t supposed to be so intense that it has you screaming and crying all the time.

Like my parents, the way they love each other. They didn’t choose each other, their parents more or less did it for them. They knew that they liked each other well enough by the day they got married. I don’t think they fell in love that day either but I could always tell when I was a kid that they were true friends who respected each other, relied on each other. They didn't grope each other in front of us, but I think they are lovers too, in their way. There’s nothing wrong with that kind of love. It’s the kind that lasts.

It’s the kind that I’m after, with Sasha. Well, not exactly, but…I mean that I want it to be long term. That’s why I can be patient, as long as I can see a chance for that. I had my doubts at one time, but I came around.

Yeah, okay. You and I both know I’m not as cool-headed as I sound. Maybe I listened to just enough of those Mario Lanza records my mom used to play to soften me up inside but I don’t like to show it. Just humour me.

So back to the Bayview, where I was thinking that Casey, who is anything but cool-headed most of the time, would be all over the idea of Zeke moving back in. It’s dumb and reckless and big-hearted — yeah, Casey should have been all for it.

But his eyes got really big — no, seriously. Like, huge. I mean...well, you know what I mean. Like he had something to say and he was afraid to say it.

“Zeke,” Sasha said.

And Zeke looked disgusted like he does when he wants you to know you’ve said something really stupid. I tolerate his attitude because he’s an okay guy but sometimes I’d really like to smack him upside the head. “I don’t mean tomorrow,” he said, but then his eyes went to Casey.

“Z-Zeke...um...”

Well, shit, I thought. Here we go. And with me still digesting my dinner here.

“I don’t think so,” Casey blurted.

And Zeke was hurt — how could he not have been? But he is really damn good at not feeling it. I’ll bet in his mind there was nothing to be hurt about because he hadn’t finished twisting Casey around yet. He could persuade Casey that the sky is orange and clouds are big balls of shaving cream, if he really tried. And not just Casey. I’ll never ever admit it out loud, but I’m a bit intimidated by his brains. The way he argues, it’s fucking hard to stand up to him. Fuck if he isn’t a scary, scary guy.

“You don’t think what?” he said, as if they were talking about some principle of fucking physics or something.

I saw Casey closing his eyes, reciting prayers or whatever it is he does to screw up his courage. God, how many of these scenes have I been a witness to now? I always have this little debate with myself — should I try not to listen? Should I just let it wash over me? Because I can see how being a party to this kind of melodrama is just…addictive. I really do worry that someday I will get sucked in. Maybe I should go to the bathroom, or practice meditation. Except I’m not a meditation sort of guy. I could try mental bicep curls or quad stretches, or something...think about where Sasha and I would live, how we could look for a place together, maybe a three bedroom so we could have an office…

“Would you like to tell me why?” Zeke said, and I realized I had managed to completely miss Casey’s answer. From Zeke’s sneering, defensive tone, I could pretty much guess.

“I’m not ready yet.”

“Ready for what?”

“Zeke...” Casey was glancing over at me, and at Sasha. It was a conversation he didn’t want to have in front of us. I definitely agreed with that sentiment.

“What?” Zeke insisted.

“We talked...” Casey bit his lip. “Remember, we talked about how...we...” He trailed away.

“I remember talking. I don’t remember covering the living arrangements.”

I saw that Zeke understood very well what Casey wanted. He was just not going to be content until he forced Casey to say it, not because it was in Casey’s and his best interest to be honest but because it was painful and difficult.

This is his idea of punishment. I get that. Sasha gets that. Casey gets that. Only Zeke doesn’t seem to get that.

Quite naturally, Casey had gone all quiet. I didn’t blame him. I wouldn’t have answered if someone was talking to me like that either.

“Okay, fine. I’ll help you, since you can’t seem to spit it out. You basically want me around for booty calls but the rest of the time I’m to mind my own business.”

Casey lifted his chin. “That’s right,” he said. Zeke pounded his fist on the table, just once, and Casey jumped, withered. “Let me out,” he pleaded with Sasha. “Please.”

“Kitten.”

“Please.”

Shaking his head, Sasha slid down to the end of the booth. Casey was out and up and he was heading for the door, while Zeke was already pushing me to move. I got out of the way. The next thing I knew Zeke had tossed a fifty on the table to pay for the meal and was running after Casey. The door bell jingled loudly, a couple of times.

Sasha was making ready to follow. “No,” I said, and grabbed his arm.

It’s still amazing to me how many times I seem to be called upon to deliver this message.

“Hon — “

“Leave them alone.”

With a heavy sigh, he sat down again.

“They’ll figure it out on their own.”

“I guess.”

“Guess, nothing. It's not like they don't always sort these things out.”

I was right, too. When I picked him up for work later that day, he told me that when he got in, Zeke and Casey were curled up on the couch together like two contented cats. Nuff said.

 

My Sasha is nothing if not resourceful in gathering intelligence. Give him time — he’ll talk to the parties involved and piece together a reasonably accurate narrative of what’s going on, which is that Casey doesn’t want them to be in a boyfriend type relationship. He wants to hang around with Zeke and have sex with him, and he wants to be free to see other people, and Zeke, miraculously, has said he’s going to try to live with that although he doesn’t like it one bit. He seems to understand that this is all a part of Casey learning how to be his own man, so he’s dealing, even if it’s killing him.

Poor fuck. Now if it were me, I think I would just have to stay away for a while, but Zeke can’t seem to do that. Casey’s got him on a very short leash.

Sasha doesn’t much like this plan either. My baby is such a romantic. He thinks that the two of them are meant for each other, so every time Casey and Paul Bunyon hook up is like a tiny knife in his heart.

More to the point? He just can’t bear the thought of his little kitten fucking around. That’s the part of Casey he just doesn’t get, refuses to get. Now me, I agree that Casey looks really young for his age and that can get a little creepy when I think about it, but I’ve also seen that look in his eyes. He knows how he looks and how guys look at him. He knows, and he likes being looked at, too. He likes fucking and there’s nothing wrong with that. He’s a horny twenty-year-old and he’s being completely honest with Zeke so I can’t see what the big problem is, but hey, Zeke’s in love, and Zeke’s a complicated, demanding fellow.

Our trip to the club last weekend was a real barrel ‘o laughs, let me tell you. Like I was saying, Sasha and I managed to get Friday night off so we could go out to a club, the four of us. Episode the Next: Casey and the Rest Go out on the Town. This was a big deal, right? Although we were all working hard to make it seem anything but. Just a night out.

 

I used to go clubbing quite a lot, even after getting off work, staying up until five, six in the morning sometimes. I had my wild times, what can I say? It’s why I think Zeke and Sasha just need to chill out about Casey having his...but anyhow, I got all dressed up in club gear, took a cab to pick up the others. We had agreed in advance to cab it so we could all drink. This was going to be a par-tay, right?

It was, too… for a while. Casey batted his eyes at the bouncer, who conveniently forgot to ask for I.D., and Zeke consented to buy him a few drinks. We found a booth and took it easy for a bit, drinking our beers and hard ciders. And may I say, my boyfriend was just working the fucking shit outta his tight white t-shirt and black jeans, showing off his ass and his wide shoulders. He’s not a bulky type, more wiry, and perfect to me. And can he dance. Even though he's tall, he's never done that thing where he hunches and contorts his body. It's like he's determined to be wholly himself, in every way possible.

God, I love him.

Zeke looked like he always looks, which is more than enough, but Casey, I don’t remember what he wore exactly just that he was doing the thing with the make-up again and I must admit, he was hot. He looked like some slinky little nympho type, if boys can be that, and Zeke must have gotten really tired of feeling like a dog with his tongue hanging out of his mouth. Either that or glaring and barking at all the other dogs eyeing up Casey like he’s some juicy little tenderloin.

I’ve said it before. Poor Zeke.

Yeah. It was fun for a while. It wasn't long before Sasha and Casey decided that they had to dance, and for the next couple of hours they just tore up the floor, working up a good sweat. I was amazed to see that Casey could dance. I don’t know if it’s good or bad, it just...it’s just him, if that makes any sense. I always figured him as a non-dancer but when he got out there it was like something happened and his bones went all soft. The drinks he had probably didn’t hurt either.

I danced with them a part of the time but…not so much. I do like to dance but I also know that I’m pretty awful. When I go out there, I’ll be okay for a while and then suddenly I’ll feel self-conscious and have to sit down. As for Zeke, he refuses to dance at all. No surprise there. He can’t risk letting go like that, right?

Then, just when everything was trundling along, I saw that Zeke was utterly rigid, watching something, and I knew it had to be bad news. I followed the direction of his gaze and, sure enough, Casey was dancing with this giant man and it was pretty fucking clear what was going on. Casey was just about climbing him like he was a tree.

Of course, Zeke had had just enough booze to make trouble. I grabbed him when he made a move from our booth. “Where you goin’?” I shouted.

It occurred to me that this seems to be my job — grabbing people before they can do something stupid, except no one ever seems to listen. I don’t know why I keep doing it.

“’m gonna...!”

“Huh?!”

“...gonna fuck that guy up!”

I held onto Zeke’s arm. “Sit!”

For moments we were frozen in this pose, and then he just sagged down, to my complete astonishment. He drained the remainder of his drink, staring across the room at Casey and the stranger. Then he said something that I couldn’t hear.

“What?” I shouted.

He turned to me, and I was really surprised by the pain in his face. “I don’t want him to be hurt!”

I winced. “Zeke... it doesn’t look like he’s getting hurt!”

“He will...!”

I shook my head. “Let me buy you another drink. You’ll stay put?”

Zeke shot me a look. “Yeah!”

I wasn’t entirely confident that he meant it, so I made haste getting our next round. When I got back to the booth, Sasha was sitting there as well, and they were both watching Casey’s performance. He and the stranger were now plastered to each other, swaying and gyrating. When the song transitioned into a brief lull with just swirling, electronic ambience, they broke apart. They exchanged a few words, and then the giant leaned down; cupping his hands over Casey’s ear, he shouted something. Casey nodded.

Zeke gulped half of his drink, and nudged Sasha. “Move!”

Sasha stayed put. “What are you doing?”

“I’m going over there.”

The volume of the music was rising. The backbeat was about to kick in.

I shouted, “Does it look like Casey wants you to?!”

“Doesn’t fucking matter!”

There’s was certain logic to that, I suppose.

“What are you going to do?!” Sasha demanded.

It appeared that Zeke decided to forego explanations. He merely folded his arms and stared at Sasha until he got out of the way, probably because he liked the current situation no more than Zeke.

Zeke stalked over to the middle of the dance floor, to Casey and his new friend. It was difficult to see through the mess of guys, but I’m pretty sure that Zeke put a hand on Casey and tried to separate him from the other man. Words were exchanged, or shouts. I caught a glimpse of Zeke’s fists, clenched at his sides, and I waited to see them rise, expecting them to show their purpose.

It didn’t happen. There was some jostling, and some shouting, and then Zeke had Casey by the upper arm and was half-steering, half-pushing him back to our booth.

“We’re leaving!” Zeke announced.

There was a very tense, very silent cab ride back to Casey and Sasha’s apartment. Casey sat in the back, between me and Sasha. He had his jaw set and his arms folded. Zeke was in the front glaring out the window and acting like he was the only rational man left on the planet. I really wanted to tell Sasha to just come home with me, let Casey and Zeke go in and deal with it but Sasha was having none of that. He followed them in, and I had a feeling I needed to be there. I trailed after him.

Once inside the apartment, Casey kicked off his shoes and stomped silently into his bedroom — not the bathroom, thank god, or Sasha would have had a fit — with Zeke in tow and Sasha kind of drifting behind, while I stood in the entrance way, trying to decide if I should leave.

Very clearly, I heard Casey say, “I got his phone number.”

“Good for you.”

“I’m going to see him again.”

There was an odd silence. I couldn’t really see Zeke from where I was standing, but I could imagine him rubbing his head, trying to contain himself. Then he said, and he was pleading: “I don’t want you to. Casey — ”

“You don’t own me, remember? You don’t own me.”

Zeke’s voice rose. “I fucking well know that!”

“Then why won’t you leave me alone?”

“You don’t want me to leave you alone, Case.”

Now, I must admit, if he was speaking to me in that ultra-reasonable tone, it would piss me off too. So I wasn’t entirely shocked when Casey screamed, "Go away!” And he has a nice set of lungs, that kid. He can hit some good, high notes.

“No.”

“It’s my — this is my place!”

At last, Zeke’s calm was splintering. “I’m not — get your hands off me, Sasha!”

I took a step, envisioning Sasha being pushed but then I saw him merely standing in the hallway, staring into Casey’s room through the still open door.

Then the door slammed in Sasha's face. I saw him startle backwards.

“You had no right,” Casey shouted, only slightly muted by the door.

“Oh, really?” Zeke said, still loud enough to fill an opera house. “I have no right? Then maybe the next time you call me in hysterics, I’ll remind you that I have no right and I’ll just stay home.”

I took myself to the dining table. I sat. It occurred to me that I was really tired of being a party to these private battles. I was not supposed to be here. Sasha was not supposed to be here. We were supposed to not be here together.

Now Casey was sounding a bit more sane, less screechy. “That’s not going to happen again.”

“Apparently it didn’t happen last time either.”

“What?”

A small sound startled me; I looked up to see Sasha standing there. He reached out and I took his hand. He sat down, still holding mine. I squeezed his, and gave him a small grin.

“You forgetting what happened?” Zeke demanded.

“No — “

“It wasn’t even a week ago, Casey! You got passed around like a party favour, didn’t you?”

Sasha closed his eyes. I guess Casey hadn’t told him this. “Fuck,” he breathed.

“Why don’t you go ahead and say it!”

“What?”

“You want to call me a slut? Go ahead.”

“I don’t.”

“Yeah, you do. You like reminding me about shit, don’t you, Zeke? You’ve gotta punish me.”

It was distinctly possible that Casey had scored a point there, because Zeke was quiet for a few seconds, and when he picked it up, he was trying to be the essence of calm.

“That’s not the point. The point is, that guy messes with you and you have to go back for more.”

“He didn’t — “

“He was one of them, right? Tell me he wasn’t.”

This time, I couldn’t hear what Casey said. I definitely heard Zeke, though. He was nearly shouting again.

“You’ve got to be fucking kidding! I saw — “

“...like him.”

“Bull fucking shit!”

“I like him, Zeke! I wanted to see him again — you said you wouldn’t interfere.“

A surprising thing happened then: Zeke didn’t reply. There was a huge gap right in the middle of the argument.

I whispered to Sasha, “He’s trying to calm down.” I tried another smile.

Sasha shrugged. He looked miserable.

“I know what I said,” Zeke said then. I held my breath. “I know what I said but I can’t just let you do this shit to yourself and not say anything. There’s nothing I can do about it, yeah, okay, Casey. But it’s not fucking okay! What do you want from me, huh? You want me to stand there while you get a meaningless fuck from Paul Bunyon, I guess I will but I’m not going to help you. I can’t help you with that, I’m just the idiot who gives a damn about you — what do you fucking want me to do — !”

Zeke’s voice broke. Sasha rubbed his forehead with his other hand.

I thought I heard a thud, like someone’s limb hitting the wall. A muffled sound like a flurry of movement, a loud creak of bedsprings and another thud. Either all talk had ceased, or the conversation had resumed in whispers. Frankly, I didn’t want to hear it. Another thud, and Sasha was on his feet.

I clenched his hand. “It’s time for us to go,” I said.

“No, Jerry — “

I refused to let him go. He whirled and glared down at my hand on him.

“What are you going to do?” I hissed. “They aren’t hurting each other.”

Sasha closed his eyes and shook his head. Then he looked at me, pleading.

“You can’t go in there,” I insisted. I know that at this very moment Zeke and Casey were doing something that he didn’t want to see, and frankly, I was surprised that even Sasha would go this far. I stared into his eyes and couldn’t believe what I was seeing. He was on the brink of something, but hell if I knew what.

“Something’s going to happen.”

“Something is happening but it’s none of our business, Sasha.” I pointed jerkily to the exit. “Let’s go.”

His eyes were shining, tearing up. God, I wanted to know what was going through his head. No, I needed to know.

I stood, moving in the direction of the entrance hall. Sasha stumbled a little, getting his shoes on. I didn’t speak, just gently prodded him by example, until we got outside. We began to walk down the sidewalk as though we had a destination when we would actually need to find a cab. It was a warm summer night, and not exactly deserted, and I had a moment of inspiration.

“Let’s get coffee.”

I steered him towards Zorba’s, bought him a coffee, got him settled. He still looked like someone had just murdered his puppy. Or more to the point, his kitten.

“Well?” I said.

He shook his head slightly.

“Sasha.”

“I shouldn’t have left.”

I tried to pitch my words so they would carry only to him, despite my anger. “How many times do we have to have this argument? Just when I think you’re ready to let go, you pull something like this...I mean, you were about to walk in on two people having sex! Enough is enough.”

“People think that certain things have to be private,” Sasha said, his face as sullen as it ever got. “And that’s just how some people get away with doing evil things to other people.”

“Do you think Zeke is doing something evil to Casey?”

“Maybe.”

I gave him a highly sarcastic head tilt. “Zeke?”

Sasha wrapped both hands around his coffee mug. “It’s possible. You know it is.”

“But for Christ’s sake, Sasha! Hasn’t he earned your trust — and — “ I broke off as I realized we were back where we were in December. “And you know what? That isn’t the issue. The issue is that you use this whole Casey-Zeke thing to avoid trying to have a life of your own.”

I couldn’t believe I said this, but now it was out. No taking it back. It wasn’t anything I hadn’t thought a number of times.

“That’s bullshit!” Sasha argued. “That's just — “

“It’s not bullshit. You know I’ve been wanting to ask you to move in with me? But I don’t dare because I know what you’ll say.”

“It’s too soon.”

“Exactly.”

Sasha didn’t reply, not immediately. He lifted his mug, taking a drink. I noticed that he was trying to control his hands, which were shaking.

“Sasha,” I pleaded. “Don’t you think you deserve to be happy too?”

He raised a hand. I thought I had better stop talking.

Then he said, “I’m going to tell you something...because I don’t want to have this fight with you again either.”

“Okay.”

“I know that I’m messed up when it comes to Casey, but I have reasons. I want to explain them to you. Can I explain?”

“Yes,” I whispered. “Yes, of course.”

“I don’t talk about this to anyone...not to Casey, not to Zeke... I didn’t think there was any point.”

I waited. Listened.

“I’m probably the only person who really knows how bad things got with Roy. There are things... I’m pretty sure Casey doesn’t even remember a lot of it, and I don’t see any reason to remind him. The last several months they were together — like, from January to May, Casey was zoning out a lot and when he wasn’t zoning...it was like he was in this cloud. He acted like everything was wonderful when Roy was preparing to get married and just dropping by now and then for a fuck. He believed all these things that weren’t true, and I was terrified. He thought that Roy was never going to leave him. Some days he thought the wedding wasn’t going to happen, other days he thought that the wedding was going to happen but Roy was going to set him up in a special little cottage somewhere on the Windle property. He could barely keep track of things — it’s a wonder he didn’t flunk out of college. I didn’t think he could be left alone. I hung around all the time at Roy’s, or I invited him to hang out with me at my place.”

“I know — ” I tried to interpose.

“There’s more.”

Shut up and drink your coffee, Jerry.

“Okay,” I said quickly.

“I got in the habit of sharing a bed with him, at Roy’s or wherever. This happened about six or seven times — Roy coming home and kicking me out so he could — you know?”

I nodded, daring nothing else.

“I left, Jerry. I would just go. I would see when Casey woke up and saw Roy there, I would see the belief, the trust. I heard Casey ask Roy where he had been and Roy would spin some bullshit. And then he would say, I’m never going to leave you, baby, and I knew it was a lie. He wouldn’t let Casey go, but he would leave him. I knew that.”

“He’s a prick,” I confirmed.

“But that’s not even the worst part! See, Roy’s fiancee, Janice, she was putting the pressure on Roy. He’d always had his apartment as a kind of refuge but she showed up there once and that was that. He asked if he and Casey could meet sometimes at my apartment, and I let them! I let them, Jerry, because I just couldn’t face Casey’s reaction if I said no. Then one night while they were there, Janice called me. She was looking for Roy, and I wanted it to be over…so I told her where I lived.”

“Oh,” I whispered.

“I wanted a confrontation. I wanted Roy to have to tell the truth to Casey, that he was going to be living in the closet and there was no room for Casey. So Janice came to my apartment and she made this horrible, horrible scene. She walked in on them when they were in bed. She called Casey a slut and so on, and she hit him in the face. She slapped him. Then she ordered Roy to get rid of Casey, and then she ran out.”

“How did Casey react?” I asked, trying to imagine some new level of hysteria I had never witnessed.

“He just...stared at Roy. He stared and stared, like he was waiting. He didn’t say a word. And then...you know what Roy did?”

“What?”

“He said, ‘You know I’m never going to let you go, baby,’ and he went after Janice.”

“Leaving you to deal with Casey.”

Sasha laughed bitterly. “What was there to do? Casey didn’t make a fuss, he didn’t have hysterics... He was in his little fantasy where Roy loved him and would never leave him. Not an hour later I mentioned Janice’s visit to him and it was like it never happened. And then the next day...” Sasha rubbed his forehead. “You think I feel guilty for not interfering? You have no idea. First I sicced Janice on him and the next day I decided to force the issue. I blackmailed Roy into telling Casey it was over.”

“You did the right thing,” I stated.

“But the right thing felt so wrong, Jerry, because it was way too late. I keep waiting for Casey to remember, to accuse me...”

“Maybe he does remember and it just doesn’t matter because you’re his friend? Have you thought of that?”

“I’m sure he doesn’t remember. Not the visit from Janice, not the rest of it. Days and days after that when he didn’t sleep and didn’t eat. I was the one who put him on the train to Herrington, Jerry. I’m sure he has no memory of the trip. He doesn’t seem to remember the things I’ve done to him!”

“It wasn’t you doing —“

“I basically stood by while Roy — !” He stopped suddenly, lowered the volume to an under-his-breath hiss. “I let Roy rape my friend.”

I felt like I had been punched in the gut. “No, Sasha,” I protested. “That’s not what happened. It was Casey who wanted it.”

“Roy got him so mixed up he didn’t know what he wanted! How it that not rape, huh?”

Again, I shook my head.

Sasha whispered, “How many times...?” He sniffed and dashed away a tear like its presence angered him for some reason. “I don’t even...I don’t even know.”

I had so many things to say, but I had to force myself not to speak until I was certain of myself. I was just grateful that he was willing to wait for it.

"Sasha," I said, and took a long breath. I was pacing myself. "I can’t speak to what happened before. All I know is — all I’ve seen is you being an amazing friend to Casey. Amazing… " Hell, I wish I knew more words. "Maybe you made some mistakes once…yeah, maybe you did, but there are some things — some things you only figure out are mistakes after the fact. It's not like you were trying to hurt him, it was just the situation."

"Isn't that just an excuse?" he said miserably, his eyes hanging on me like I was in possession of some kind of knowledge that actually made my opinion worthwhile.

"It's not an excuse! Roy's the one who…Sasha, has it occurred to you that Roy made a victim of you too?"

He was visibly jolted by this. He said flatly, "No."

"I think he hurt you a lot."

"Nothing like what he did to Casey."

"Of course," I sighed. "But my point is…"

What was my point?

"…my point is… is maybe you've been healing, too?"

He reached across the table suddenly, took my hand. "Do you really think that?"

"Yeah. I do. And I think…" I squeezed his hand, looking hard into his eyes because I was so afraid of how he was going to react to this next part. "Maybe when you're done your healing, you'll be ready to let Casey go."

Well, the good news was he didn't yell, or yank his hand away. He just blinked at me, his beautiful brown eyes conveying everything as he tried to decide if he should be offended. “What do you mean...let him go?”

“I don’t mean stop being friends with him, just...let him breathe. Let him live his own life and let yourself have a life.”

Sasha looked away from me, seeming to study what was going on outside Zorba’s window. “Sometimes...” he said softly. “Sometimes I feel like I want to let go. I really do...”

“Yeah...”

“... and then I think about him in that hospital last summer...and before that. You don’t know how...well, how vulnerable he was, Jerry. He was completely on his own. I mean, his parents let him down and...and I let him down. And Roy just destroyed him, Jerry, he destroyed him and no one stepped in. I was a coward, you know that? Roy was the first friend I made when I moved to Cincinnati and I — ”

I gripped Sasha’s hand, hard. “We could go around and around on this one, baby. Roy is bad news. He hurt you, he hurt Casey, and yeah, you made a mistake but it’s over now.”

“I’m just afraid of making the same mistake again.”

“You’re not going to. I promise, you’re not. I mean...shit, I’m not suggesting you move to another country. We’re just talking about a shift of attitude here.”

“And a new apartment.”

“That can wait.”

“But that’s what you want, isn’t it?”

“At some point, yeah, but that’s not what this is about. I just want you to believe you deserve to be happy, Sasha. And maybe say a big fuck off and die to Roy in your head, so we can all move on?”

Sasha uttered a small laugh, like maybe he was trying to develop a sense of humour on this topic.

“Or say it out loud,” I pressed.

“That’s funny.”

“Why’s it funny.”

“’Cuz...sometimes I would make Casey repeat things out loud and now I’m the one...”

“Pot, meet kettle.”

“Exactly,” Sasha said, and squeezed my hand.

“Well?”

“Well, what?”

“Aren’t you going to say it?”

“You mean...?”

“Fuck off and —“

“— and die. Roy.”

“Yeah.”

“Fuck off and die, Roy.”

“Amen, sister.”

With a bit of a smile, Sasha pulled my hand towards himself and kissed it. “I’m trying, Jerry,” he whispered. “I’ll...try.”

 

And he has been trying, really he has, but he can’t help getting a bit worked up about Casey and Steve being alone in his and Casey’s apartment. From the way he’s bracing himself as he opens the door, he must be thinking we’re going to find the walls smeared with lube and cum, and Casey splayed out on the kitchen table or something.

I will never say this to Sasha, because I know what’s good for me, but he can really be something of a prude. It’s not that he isn’t a sexy guy, far from it. Once you get him alone he’s pretty fucking flexible, but there’s always this moment where — well, I guess he has to convince himself that it’s okay, and then it’s okay. And he still has this sort of distaste about things, you know. I mean, bodies can be pretty gross. That’s just the way it is and it doesn’t bother me, but Sasha... I think his mother had code words for everything, like “unmentionables” for underwear and “fluffies” for farts. I’ll bet to this day he thinks that his mother doesn’t have to take a shit like other people. It’s just one of those things about him that I’ve gotten used to. Sometimes it’s even kind of cute.

Right now, it’s a bit frustrating. We could be back at my place, but he’s decided that he absolutely must go home tonight, and now he’s peering around like he’s expecting the worst.

I know this is a little bit unfair of me. I’m not the one whose best friend was put in the hospital last summer because he was more or less suicidal. I’m not the one who let one friend get away with raping another.

Am I too blunt? Maybe, but this is just what Sasha believes. He really believes that Roy raped Casey a whole bunch of times. That’s the long and short of it. I don’t know if that’s what happened. I don’t think Sasha knows, really. I don’t even think Casey knows, but what I’ve told Sasha is that he probably couldn’t have stopped it. He doesn’t believe me, of course. You’d think he was raised Catholic, the way he can hold onto guilt.

All is tidy and quiet in the apartment. The living room is dark, and the hallway. We can both see that Casey’s bedroom door is shut, and there is a strip of light showing at the bottom. Sasha switches on the kitchen and entrance way lights, and then hollers, right in my ear, “Honey, I’m home!” I have to turn and glare at him. “Sorry,” he whispers.

“Was that necessary?”

He rolls his eyes, which means: Yes, of course it’s necessary. He doesn’t want to hear anything relating to sex in relation to Casey.

There’s a bottle of red wine that I keep stashed in one of the cupboards. Once we have our shoes put away and ourselves generally organized, I am going for it. It’s a nice, fruity Beaujolais from Chile, one of my favourites in the fifteen dollar realm.

“Wine?” I offer.

In answer, Sasha retrieves two glasses from a high shelf.

While he is doing this, Casey’s door opens, and a gargantuan shadow emerges, moving down the hall towards us. It’s Paul Bunyon, and he’s tucking his shirt into his jeans. He grins, a bit sheepish. I can’t help but imagine him with Casey — god, he must just about crush him. But then, some big guys can be the gentlest people you’d ever meet. I think they have to be.

“Hi,” the dude says. He sounds like that Darth Vader guy when he talks, what’s his name — ? James Earl Jones. “I’m — er, Steve.”

Sasha grunts — I think it was his name.

“Jerry,” I say. “Hi.”

“Hi.”

“You want a glass of wine?”

Sasha goes all still, all at once, and I know I’m in for it.

“Ah...no, thanks. I think I should get going.”

Steve heads for the door. Just before he opens it, he pauses, turns and says, “I’m sorry about the kaffuffle the other night.”

Kaffuffle? Did he just say kaffuffle? I’m starting to feel like I might just come down with a case of the giggles. But Sasha is still not talking, so I chip in. “It’s okay. Zeke’s the one who started it.”

“Still...” Steve shrugs. “I’m just not that kind of guy, you know?”

Boy, do I ever. I’ve never been thrown out of a club in my life, and for a while there the other night, I was afraid that was going to be the outcome. “Yeah.”

“See you.”

“Bye.”

When he is out the door, and a suitable period has passed — say, ten seconds — Sasha turns on me. “What was that?”

“Just being polite.”

“That was more than polite! Maybe you want to invite him to dinner too?”

Every now and then, I can lose my temper. It’s usually brief, a build up of exasperated feelings and a small explosion, and then it passes. Like now. “For Christ’s sake, Sasha! Would you give it a rest?”

He is going to say more, but then we both realize that Casey has appeared, and we clamp down.

Casey has this way of not making a sound when he moves around. Not like me; it’s not like I shuffle or anything, but I just don’t know how to be that silent. Maybe it’s because he’s so little, or maybe it’s because he used to be so scared. All I know is, one second he’s nowhere and then the next, he’s in your space. It used to creep me out until I got used to it. I thought maybe he was always trying to sneak from place to place but it’s not that. It’s just who he is. Now it just catches me off guard sometimes.

It always catches me off guard, too, that this is the Casey who looms so large in my life. This slip of a person...I don’t know how it happened. Sure, I can see he’s special, you’d have to be blind not to. Or maybe strange is more to the point. I look at him, and I can totally believe that he tangled with aliens, if you know what I mean. The entire world is full of aliens to him. You can totally tell — which is my way of saying that he is perfectly nice, completely insane person. I think Zeke’s insane too; to be with him, he has no choice but to be President of Casey’s Crazy Club. It’s a harmless kind of crazy, mostly.

See, I think some people are just born so different, they have to be crazy to survive around here. There’s nothing wrong with it; I’m just glad I’m not one of them. I’m different, sure, but it doesn’t ooze out of my pores. There’s different like me, and then there’s totally, absolutely radically different like Casey, like he’s never, ever going to belong in this world. This world doesn’t know what to do with that kind of different.

Just this moment, Casey is barefoot, wearing jeans and a ragged t-shirt, leaning up against the wall. The Truth is Out There, says his shirt. There’s something unbearably right about that shirt, on him. His hair is standing straight up in places, and there is this hazy, vaguely happy expression on his face. He seems to be glowing. Like, literally glowing. If it is possible for a person to look well-fucked...that’s how he looks right now.

“Hey,” he says, and he smiles at Sasha. He stretches his arms over his head, showing his belly-button. He seems to be moving in slow motion. “You’re back early.”

“Slow night,” I agree.

“Um...I’m going to have a shower and go to sleep.”

“Sounds like a plan.”

He half-turns. Stops. Looks back at me, all of it still like the air is extra thick around him. “Hey, guys? Zeke and I were talking...about that present we gave you? You know, the dinner?”

Sasha blinks. Casey almost frowns, and I hate to see that look of sexual bliss threatened. “Yeah,” I say quickly.

“We think we’re ready.”

“Been studying cookbooks?”

Casey giggles. “Not exactly.”

I can’t begin to imagine what this dinner is going to entail, but I can see that Casey is still keen on the idea. I continue to fill in for Sasha, who is still making like a statue. “When do you want to do it?”

“How about Sunday?”

Inwardly, I wince. I usually go to my parents’ house for dinner on Sundays. I’m going to be giving up home-made ravioli or cacciatori and who knows what else for...who knows what. “Let me get back to you,” I say, and smile. “Just gotta check with my folks.”

Casey smiles back. “Great.”

“Do we get to pick the menu?”

“We thought we’d surprise you.”

“Oh. Sounds good.”

I give him the thumbs up. He beams, and slips silently away, down the hall to the bathroom.

All this while, Sasha has not said a word. I turn to stare at him, and this is where I realize that he’s been standing right next to me having a crisis this whole time. In his mind, he’s been living with this child who's been burned but still refuses not to play with matches — and then he comes home to discover this adult, coolly exercising his sexual rights.

“You want that glass of wine now?” I say.

He blinks at me. “Yeah...please.” He must be in distress to admit to wanting a drink. Because of his father, he’s very careful about his alcohol consumption.

I work hard at taking care of him. I get him comfortable in the living room with his glass of wine, sitting down next to him, rubbing the shoulder that I have access to. He takes a long slurp and some of it goes down wrong. He coughs and wheezes, with me patting him, then downs some more. Coughs some more. I take the wine away — a fine Beaujolais doesn’t deserve to be treated like that — and put it on the coffee table.

“What’s wrong, baby?” I ask, very gently.

I see him testing, listening for the sound of the shower running, and there it is, protecting our privacy.

“I don’t...” he whispers, and he is near tears, I can hear it.

I rub his back a little more. I don’t have to say anything; I’m good at waiting.

“Why does Casey having sex...bother me so much?”

“Maybe,” I suggest, playing my cards close to the vest. “Maybe because you feel kinda parental towards him?”

“No. No, that’s not it...well, maybe a little, but...”

“But?”

“Just know when I was looking at him I was wishing...”

“Yeah,” I breathe.

“I was wishing he would stop acting like that. I was disgusted by him...by him liking it so much.”

“Oh, baby.”

“I know. I’m disgusted with myself, too.”

“Don’t do that, baby.”

“But...Jerry...I’m afraid...”

“Afraid?”

“No, not afraid, I mean...is it possible that after all this time...I’m not okay with who I am?” His eyes are brimming with tears. “God, how could I be so full of shit? All those times I got after Zeke for his attitude...”

“Sasha. Baby, look at me.”

He twists slightly, facing me.

“It’s not like you have to love anal sex to be gay,” I say. “We have a pretty good time, don’t we?”

“Yeah,” he admits.

“Most gay guys I know don’t even do it. Personally, nothing makes me happier than a good blow job.”

“But I was judging Casey...”

“Yeah. Well, you know what I think? I think that Casey makes you feel like when you were younger and you were on your own, and scared...vulnerable, you know? Your dad kicked you out when you were just a kid. Maybe...maybe by protecting Casey you’re trying to protect yourself...just a bit?”

He blinks at me, then wipes his eyes.

“And it just so happens” I add, “that you are one of the most insanely protective people I’ve ever met. Between you and Zeke, it’s a wonder Casey knows how to tie his own shoelaces.”

Sasha bites his lip.

“You’ve just gotta let the kid grow up...and you gotta realize that you’re not that kid anymore either.”

He stares a little more, then leans into me and hugs me, hard. “You’re pretty smart.”

“Yeah, I know. Smarter than I look.”

He mumbles, “Maybe I could use some therapy, huh?”

I utter a mock groan. Sasha is chuckling, his body shaking gently against mine. “Let me take you to bed,” I whisper to him. “I’ll show you therapy.”

“Here?”

“Why not?”

“Casey...the other side of the wall...”

“He’s going to crash the second his head hits the pillow.”

“You think?”

“He won’t hear a thing.”

Well, if Casey does ever hear a thing between me and Sasha, he’s gracious enough to act like he hasn't.

 

If there’s anything this chapter of my life has been teaching me, it’s that happiness may very well be a matter of pure chance. I’ve seen these people in my life fighting and fighting to be happy and never quite getting there, and now, when they’ve kind of given up on it, it seems to happen to them out of the blue. Casey’s still doing his usual things — going to therapy and all that, and he and Zeke are not a couple, and they’re not living together, or even exclusive. But for some reason, they’re happy this week. It’s like Casey just got up one morning with a smile on his face and wanting Zeke around all the time even though he’s still getting close and personal with Paul Bunyon every other night. And I don’t know what he did to Zeke to bring him into line, but Zeke is being just as cuddly as he could be. If they’re not hanging out together then they’re talking on the phone or texting each other...they’re inseparable. I almost wonder if Casey keeps Zeke on hand in another room when he’s fucking Paul — er, Steve. Maybe in the same room. Who knows what kind of kinky stuff it takes to make their relationship work these days.

Now, here’s the point: Since Casey and Zeke are in a good mood, Sasha is in a good mood. And that means that I get to be happy too.

It can’t actually all be due to Paul Bunyon’s gigantic cock...can it?

Whatever it is, this has been a really good two weeks. We ended up postponing The Dinner a week because my ma absolutely had to have me and Sasha over last Sunday. It was my cousin’s tenth anniversary, see. Casey and Zeke didn’t seem at all concerned when I told them. If anything, Zeke looked relieved to have another night alone with Casey.

It won’t stay like this. It can’t. Just like it arrived, one morning the happy will have gone away. There’s nothing to be done about it, except keep doing the work. We’ll all keep doing the work. That’s what my ma and pop taught me. Work is the way to happiness. Not feeling too good? Keep making the ravioli or scrubbing the bathroom. Keep getting up and going in to the job. Work through it, and you will be rewarded. It even works, sometimes. Obviously, my folks were brought up in that mindset where you didn’t go to therapists, and you sure didn’t lie down and want to be dead because you were depressed. What can I say? They’re old school, but of course if I ever came down with a case of depression, they would have to adjust their ideas, I guess.

This business of Casey and Zeke cooking for us is a big deal. I’ve run into Stokely, and she mentioned it. I saw Stan for ten seconds the other day as he and Zeke were on their way to play squash, and he made a crack about it. I’m beginning to feel just a little bit worried. I mean — fuck, whatever it is, I’m going to do my best to choke it down, but what if I can’t?

Sasha and I have agreed to dress up a little. Not too much, we don’t want to be too formal. I wear a nice silk shirt and slacks. I like clothes. I don’t overdo it but I like the feel of quality, you know? I’d rather have one really expensive, top-notch shirt than a dozen cheap ones. I take care with my shaving, my hair. I usually wear it very short, but I’ve been thinking of letting it grow in a little. Just a little, mind you. The guy in the mirror looks pretty good, even if I do say so myself.

I have a bad feeling as I knock on Casey and Sasha’s door. Sasha opens the door to me; he looks and smells great, though, and I take the opportunity to paw him up a little.

But he has other things on his mind. He goes along with it for a few seconds, then is turning back to look into the kitchen. "Are you sure you want to do this, kitten?" he asks, and I just want to groan aloud. Zeke is in plain view behind the tableau of Casey and Sasha, and he's pouring a drink for himself from what looks to be a brand new mickey of vodka.

"Yeah, I want to do it. Don't you…um, don't you want me to?"

"Yes! Yes, of course. I just mean you don't have to."

"It was your present," Casey says. He sounds near to tears. He is hugging one of Sasha's cookbooks against his chest, and looks more frayed than I have seen him for some time.

"But you picked some complicated dishes, kitten — "

"Sasha!" I say.

He looks at me with a frown.

"I have an idea. Why don't we go to a movie…so we're not in their hair?"

Sasha doesn't look terribly amenable, but Casey is somehow simultaneously grateful and more upset.

"So tell me…what are you cooking for us?" I inquire.

"Penne with vodka sauce."

I nod. "Mmm."

"And chicken…" Casey opens the cookbook and reads. "Grilled chicken with herbs…and spinach salad with candied pecans, goat cheese and pears. And for dessert, l-lava cakes with this cream sauce…can't remember…"

"Crème anglaise," Sasha supplies, with a meaningful glance at me.

The one and only time I tried crème anglaise, I burned it, and I am not entirely without skill.

"I'm in charge of the salad and the chicken," Zeke informs me solemnly, and downs his shot of vodka.

I would like to laugh hysterically, but I don't. I clap my hands together like some idiot in a movie. "Coolio. Well, Casey…can I use your computer to check the movie listings?"

"Sure," he says, with barely a glance at me. He is busy reading.

"Sasha, come with me."

"Huh?"

"To pick a movie?"

Undoubtedly, Sasha couldn't care less, but he comes along quietly. I open Internet Explorer and search for local movie listings while Sasha hovers over my shoulder — and we both jump at a large clatter from the kitchen.

"Fuck," Sasha hisses.

"Shh. Whatever it is, it's not breakable…hey, Spiderman!"

"Say what?"

"The movie. I've been wanting to see this. Can we, babe?"

"Oh…why not."

"There's one starting at 2:30. It's perfect."

I have to grab him by the hand and almost haul him to the door. Our last sight of Casey and Zeke before we leave is the two of them in a kitchen surrounded by groceries, implements and cookbooks.

As we settle in my car, I say, “I knew it was too good to be true.”

“Huh?”

“The happy.”

“Ha-happy?”

“Yeah. Everyone’s been in such a good mood.”

“They have? We have?”

Apparently, Sasha hasn’t noticed. He states, “Zeke got Casey to agree to only have sex with him and Steve.”

“At the same time?”

“What — ? No! And he apparently wants Casey to tell him when and where it happens, and how many times.”

“Jesus,” I breathe.

“Yeah.”

“Why doesn’t Zeke just have Casey write him a daily report?”

Sasha runs a hand through his hair. “I wouldn’t put it past him. And you know, Casey’s kind of the same. They both think like science geeks, you know? It feels almost like Casey’s running an experiment. He told me last night he’s been learning a lot...by comparing the two of them.”

“Do I want to hear this?”

“No, and neither did I. He just said...he knows it’s different with Zeke.”

“I really don’t want to hear this.”

“He says, he knows that Zeke loves him.”

“Well...that’s something, right?”

I am sticking to my theory. It’s the biggest cock in the world that made the difference. See, what I think is going to happen is Casey gets all the sexual satisfaction he can stand, and he realizes that it’s still better with Zeke. I may have been brought up in a macho culture, but even I know that it’s better when you have feelings for a person. Everyone knows that.

Or maybe not. Maybe it’s just a myth. Maybe Casey doesn’t know it, but he’s going to use his big brain to figure it out. All I know is, Zeke and Casey will never be able to call it quits. They don’t know how to be any other way.

 

I have collected the Spiderman comics for years, so I don’t have high expectations of this film, but it is pretty good. I chatter about it all the way home, with Sasha nodding and grunting and more or less humouring me. He’s such a wonderful, generous person.

The instant we step into the apartment, however, my good mood vanishes. There is a horrible burning smell and I know Sasha is going to be mourning a pan or two tonight. Zeke is standing grimly over the stove, stirring what appears to be a giant pot of boiling pasta. Neither the roasted chicken nor Casey is anywhere to be seen. I do detect evidence of store-bought tomato sauce. On the counter, the wooden cutting board is strewn with carbonized pieces of bread.

On the stove, it appears that a saucepan has been sacrificed to the attempt at crème anglaise, which is now a blackened skin.

“What happened?” Sasha asks. To his credit, he doesn’t sound angry at all.

Zeke pulls out the wooden spoon he is using to stir the pasta. “Casey’s in his room.” I can tell that he is more than half in the bag.

“Doing what?”

“Sleeping, probably.”

“Crap,” Sasha mutters. “He took a Xanax? How long ago?”

“About an hour.”

This will be the first time in almost two months, and now, at the prospect of making a meal for me and Sasha? I feel just a little bit ashamed. I know I’m a food snob but I never thought it would do anyone any harm. Now Zeke is drunk and Casey is sedated and hiding in his room.

Zeke reports, deadpan: “Casey burned that crème anglaise stuff, I burned the cakes and the chicken…and that vodka sauce tastes like shit.”

I see Sasha’s mouth twitch. I’ve never heard him really yell before, and I brace myself.

“And Casey dropped one of your wine glasses,” Zeke finishes. “That was when he kinda freaked.” He stirs the pasta, hopelessly. I can tell just by looking at it that it’s dreadfully overcooked.

Sasha makes a horrible, stifled, snorting sound, and it occurs to me that he’s trying not to laugh. “And the pasta?”

“First batch is in the garbage. I ran down to Wellth and got some stuff...had to have something, right?” Zeke frowns at the pasta. “I think it’s almost done.”

This is when I lose it. I burst out with guffaws, and Sasha starts to giggle.

“This is fucking serious,” Zeke protests.

“Un...huh...!”

“Sasha...we ruined another of your pans.”

“Oh, Zeke, hon,” Sasha says. “It’s not serious...it’s funny. C’mon, what else can it be?”

Zeke begins to smirk slightly. “Yeah,” he admits. "Okay." He turns off the heat on the stove. “Whatta you say we order pizza? My treat.”

“Oh, god, yes,” I agree fervently, because snob or not, ashamed or not, I simply cannot bend when it comes to sauce from a jar. The horror is too great.

“I’m going to talk to Casey,” Sasha says.

“I’ll come with,” I put in, because I really do feel partly responsible for this. Sasha gives me a quick look but says nothing.

He knocks once on the door before entering, a bold thing to do if you ask me. When you grow up with a bunch of siblings in a small house, some things are sacrosanct and a closed door is one of them. But Sasha is just like this when it comes to Casey. He pushes the limits.

It seems that Casey is asleep, curled up in the bed with his afghan, his back to us...but again, Sasha plunges right in. “Kitten?”

And Casey rolls over. Not asleep after all, he looks like he’s been asleep, or nearly. His eyes are puffy and red, too, never a good sign.

“Oh, kitten.” In a heartbeat Sasha is on the bed and has his arm around Casey, who curls in against him like he is that kitten that Sasha is always naming him. His eyes catch mine, and he almost literally hides his face from me, burying it.

“It’s just food,” Sasha croons, stroking Casey’s hair. “Not worth getting upset over.”

“I know,” Casey mutters.

“Then why...?”

“I just wanted so much...to...” Casey’s voice almost disappears, drowning in breathy, almost-sleep. It happens now whenever he takes a Xanax because of that other drug he’s on. The last few times he got terribly weepy and it seems this time will be no different. “...do this right...so of course...had to happen...”

“Is it possible that you were putting just a little too much pressure on yourself?” Sasha muses.

“But...was supposed to be...gift...Never know what I can give you.” Casey’s hand opens once and convulses, clutching at the afghan. “Wanted this to go right...so bad...and...and I could feel it coming...the attack...all morning...couldn’t stop it. So sorry...”

“Hey...you know, this is just silly.”

“I know. Silly, stupid...melodramatic...stupid.”

“Now cut that out.” Sasha is rocking Casey, just enough that a depressed twenty-year-old will accept it. “I don’t want to hear you saying that about yourself, okay?”

“Shouldn’t...have to take the pill...”

“That’s what they’re for, kitten.”

“...can’t stay awake...”

“That’s okay. You go to sleep, and we’ll all be here when you wake up.”

“Zeke?”

“Zeke, too.”

Casey abruptly peers under Sasha’s arm at me. “Sorry, Jerry,” he whispers, and I swear, even though I already care for him as a friend, I just kind of fall in love, he is that fucking adorable at this moment.

“Nothing to be sorry for,” I reply, sitting down on the bed. I pat his ankle, feeling slightly awkward about it. “Nothing at all.”

“Just...s-saying that.”

“Naw, I mean it.” And I really do. “Look, some of us where just not born to cook. Like me.”

He blinks, struggling to be awake. “You cook.”

“I know enough to impress a date, that’s all. I don’t have the aptitude. I burned my first crème anglaise too...but, hey, that’s okay! I make up for it by being really good at eating.”

Casey manages a smile, but his eyelids have drooped so far, I doubt he can even see me. “Gotta sleep,” he mumbles.

He’s out within seconds.

In the hallway, Sasha grabs me and lays on a long, fiery kiss.

“What?” I demand. “Not that I’m complaining.”

“That was just because you’re such a hero.”

“I wasn’t trying to be.”

“I know. Exactly.”

Zeke has ordered three pizzas — one with the toppings that I like, one just the way Sasha likes, and one with just pepperoni, for Casey and himself, but probably more for Casey. Zeke himself would probably eat anything that didn’t eat him first.

We end up spending most of the evening just watching TV — The Real World — and engaging in snooty, ironic commentary. We drink the rest of the rum, the brandy, the wine and the beer, and by the time we are drunk, Casey is awake and seeking some pizza. “No mushrooms, right?” he asks and Zeke hands him a slice of pepperoni without a word. He chomps it down, and then another, washing them down with soda and not saying much. He is still pretty stoned, and, since Zeke is fairly drunk, they make a cute if sloppy couple, nearly asleep and propping each other upright.

After one a.m., Sasha goes over and shakes Casey. “Kitten.”

“Mmph.”

Zeke’s eyes fly open, because as usual he is on high alert, watching for anyone who would do his baby harm. “What?” he snaps.

“I think it’s time for bed.”

Zeke, I can see, is struggling to be awake. “Gotta clean up,” he says thickly.

“Never mind...you can do it tomorrow.”

“Yeah?”

“Sure. It’ll keep.”

Zeke blinks, then nudges Casey. “Case...Casey...”

“’m sleeping.”

“You wanna sleep in a bed.”

A pause, then: “Bed?”

“Yeah. Your bed.”

“You comin’?”

Zeke seems to suck a breath. “If you want.”

“Want.”

It’s not like they haven’t slept together more than a few times over the past weeks, but maybe this is the first such invitation.

“Zeke?” Casey slurs.

“Yeah.”

“’m sorry.”

“I know.”

“Yelled at you.”

“It’s okay.”

“Threw a piece of chicken at you.”

“I wasn’t hurt.”

Casey, I see, is peering up at Zeke, and I for some reason, am holding my breath now.

“Yeah, you were.”

“Okay,” Zeke admits. “I was a little hurt.”

“Don' want to hurt you ever.”

“I know.”

“You’re...kinda...you’re...” Casey sucks in air slowly, licking his lips. “You’re Zeke.”

“You got that right,” Zeke returns, very serious about it. And as though he has no inkling that Sasha and I are here, he leans in, mashing his mouth against Casey’s forehead rather ungracefully, getting a part-mouthful of hair. He moves, licking his lips, and says, “You got that.”

“Always got that.”

Zeke clears his throat. “Um...let’s go to bed.”

“Kay.”

It’s quite a procedure, getting the two of them on their feet and moving, but at last they are, Zeke making furious gestures to keep Sasha at bay. Sasha can just watch them go.

When they are out of sight, Sasha turns to me.

“So,” I say. “We’re cleaning up, right?”

“Do you mind? I can’t leave it like this and sleep.”

“Nah.” I am at that stage of drunk where I feel energized rather than dopey, ready for the clubs. After all, I am usually up for hours past this. It is a strange life in the restaurant biz, don’t let anyone tell you otherwise.

I collect as much of the mess as I can, move it toward the kitchen where Sasha is standing, surveying the damage. Every surface is covered with dirty dishes, food and garbage, not to mention the empty bottles and pizza boxes, the roasting pans full of failed chicken and blackened nuts. And the crème anglaise pan. Sasha picks it up and regards it solemnly.

“This was a Mauviel,” he says sadly, and raises heavy eyes.

“Time to break out the S.O.S. pads.”

“No good. It’ll take off the finish.”

“I have an idea. Why don’t you just throw it out?”

“Jerry! This is a —“

“Mauviel, I know. But it’s never going to be the same again, you know it. Hell, I’ll buy you a new one.”

“I can’t just toss it.” He seems to be giving me a look that says he’s not just talking about the pan.

“All right,” I sigh. “All right.”

A few minutes later, Sasha nabs me on the side of my face with a kiss. “Hero,” he croons.

Casually dropping an empty pasta package into the giant garbage bag, I ask, “You mean that?”

“What? Of course.”

“Seriously.”

Sasha gives me a hard nudge. “Yeah, seriously. Geez.”

“Like I saved the world from aliens, hero?”

Sasha grabs my arm and turns me to face him. The water is running and we’re still in the midst of dealing with a mess but I have the distinct impression that time has come to a stop just now. Sasha’s eyes are doing that glowing thing that I love, long for.

“Do you want to be a save-the-world kind of hero?”

“Actually...no.”

Smiling, Sasha kisses me again, his lips a soft, familiar pressure, gently parting my own. Then he says, “Me neither.”

 

Well, this is the slowest night yet. There are even empty tables, Sandra has already been sent home, and I'm next. I won't be able to go home, though, because I'm with Sasha and if I know those chefs, they'll be back there playing around with new sauces and spice rubs. It's just what they do, when they have the time. They are artists and food is their medium.

The reason it's so dead? It's August, it's Saturday, and by some miracle, the sun is out. We do get sunshine in Seattle, and it's just that much more precious to us. I don't blame anyone for choosing a picnic or barbecue over dinner in a fancy restaurant.

I am behind the bar, filling a lull by wiping and polishing wine glasses, trying to get them as sparkling as possible, when Casey blows through our door.

Now, I have been trained to expect mayhem. Whenever I catch a glimpse of his multi-toned head, I am immediately on guard. Not hostile, just prepared — yes, even now, and especially when he makes an entrance like this. There is high emotion involved. No question about it.

See, today was his driving test. To get his driver's license, and as much as he's been kind of acting like he doesn't care that much…how could he not? I remember when I got my license, driving my car — well, my pop's car — home after, and feeling like the world was more or less at my feet. That feeling of freedom, like you could go anywhere, it fades in time but it comes back now and then too. Plus, I think of driving as just one of those things that everyone knows how to do, like tying your shoelaces and washing yourself. At least in this part of the world. I remember being shocked that no one had taught Casey to drive until recently. I knew how to drive when I was thirteen.

Shit, I think. He's failed.

"I passed!"

And now I take in the details — flushed face, sparkling eyes, and an actual, honest-to-Jesus smile. Zeke is a few feet behind him and I can see that he is wearing a tolerant smirk.

"It was easy," Casey says. "We just went for a drive and I did what he told me…I parallel-parked and the — the guy — "

"Examiner," Zeke supplies.

"Examiner-guy, he said if I can parallel park Zeke's car, I can parallel park anything — hey, where's Sasha?"

"In the kitchen," I reply, as though it weren't a given.

Casey sets out for the swinging doors between the dining room and the kitchen without any notion, apparently, that it might be inappropriate. Anyway, he's been back there before, Andrew knows him. I exchange a look with Zeke as he perches himself on a bar stool. Zeke is still looking oddly subdued, but not unhappy.

"I have that proud feeling again," I venture.

Zeke nods. "Me, too."

"What's up?"

"Huh?"

"You're kinda quiet."

"Oh…I guess I'm not used to things going off without a hitch. I don't know what to make of it."

I grin. "Enjoy it while you can."

The look he gives me is a sharp one.

"Do you want a drink?" I ask.

Zeke shrugs. "Since I have a designated driver…"

"What'll you have?"

"Oh…vodka and soda."

I nod, and serve it up.

Zeke is just taking his first sip when I hear a laugh and witness Sasha and Casey coming in our direction. They are catching a lot of attention from the customers, too. In a restaurant like this, a chef is somewhere between high priest and superstar, and right now he's behind Casey, his arms around Casey's shoulders nudging him ahead like he's the signature dish on the menu tonight, and Casey looks like the attention doesn't bother him one bit.

Of course this all makes me happy. It does, truly, but I think that the reason for that is, I know it won't always be like this. This is just a fact. It doesn't make me a cynic or a bad person. I'm not bitter about it. I'm just saying I accept it.

Sasha winds up on the bar stool adjacent to Zeke, with Casey standing between his knees. Sasha is petting, stroking Casey's arm like he doesn't quite realize he's doing it. I have a pang of something, not-quite jealousy. I can't help it, even if I know it has nothing sexual to it. Sasha is affectionate and loving to me but we could never have this easy, high contact intimacy that he has with Casey. They're like two pups in a basket, using each other's bodies for comfort and play. It gets to being a little uncomfortable for the rest of us. It also hurts me, just a little.

"Are you done?" I ask Sasha. "Working, I mean."

"Yeah. Andrew says you can go too."

"What, is he going to run the entire restaurant himself?"

"Something like that." Sasha gives Casey a wholly gratuitous squeeze. "I'm so proud of you, kitten!"

Casey sways a little, letting himself be rocked back and forth. "Yeah, if I wanted to I could just go somewhere. I could leave tomorrow."

There is a sudden, anxious hole in our chatter. Zeke's eyes get as sharp as razors. "Sure," he drawls. "If you had something to drive."

Casey blinks at him, then says with a pout, "I was just talking…not planning on going anywhere." He shifts forward, into Zeke, and presses his lips to his.

"Good," Zeke mutters.

"So I really can't drive your car?"

"Was just kidding… hmm."

"You will have to get some insurance," I put in, and then immediately feel like the lamest, most mood-breaking-est slob who ever lived.

"I'll take care of it," Zeke says quietly, not breaking eye or lip contact.

Sasha clears his throat. "So…who wants to go for a celebratory coffee?"

I see that Casey and Zeke are mired in one of those soulful gazes that make me want to grab the two of them by the scruff of the neck and yell at them to get a room, or at least remember that they're in public. It's damned annoying sometimes, and I don't foresee coffee in our future.

"I dunno," Casey whispers. "I'm kinda tired."

"Me, too," Zeke agrees.

Sasha rolls his eyes. "Okay." He pulls his chef's cap off his head and rubs his scalp. "Okay. I really could use a shower anyway. All I can smell is garlic and lamb."

"Why don't you come home with me tonight, baby?" I suggest, because let's face it, Casey and Zeke could really use their alone time. I know I don't want to be around the apartment trying not to hear whatever is going to unfold.

Sasha nods at me and smiles, but there is a moment, a little while later when we're standing in the parking lot and Casey and Zeke are about to head to the Mustang, when I see him wearing that look — the one that says he wants to go with them and get in their way or at least monitor their way.

I grab his hand. He starts a bit, gives me another, even more wistful smile.

"Okay, let's go."

We take a step, and I get an idea. "Hey."

"What?"

I have spoken loudly; Casey and Zeke are looking at me, along with my boyfriend.

"Why don't we all go for a drive tomorrow? There's this park about twenty miles down the coast...Saltwater Park. You can walk along the shore, look at Puget Sound great scenery."

"Can I do the driving?" Casey asks.

"That was the idea," I return, but I see Zeke biting his lip. He doesn't say anything, however.

"Shotgun!" Sasha calls, and I groan. It's going to be a tight fit in the back seat of Zeke's car, but my Honda Accord is even smaller and tighter.

Casey turns to Zeke, who nods and shrugs.

I am feeling quite pleased with myself, settling behind the wheel. Sasha thumps in beside me with a groan and a waft of lamb.

"Great idea, hon," he says.

"I know."

"It'll be good for Zeke, too. He needs to practice giving up control — "

"Yeah, and you know what?"

"What?"

"I think it will be really good for you if tonight we don't talk about Casey and Zeke, we try not to think about Casey and Zeke even."

He is quiet for a considerable pause — several blocks, at least. Then he says. "I'm sorry."

"You don't have to apologize, baby."

"Yeah, I do. You're such a great guy — "

"Look, Sasha." I manage to take my eyes off the road long enough to let him see that I am not angry. "I'm just fine. This is about you. I want you to be okay."

"I'm okay," he protests.

"You sure?"

"Translation: 'No, you're not, baby.'" Sasha leans his head against his window. "All right. I admit…I don't quite know what to do with myself."

"Well, how does this sound? I'm going to take care of you tonight. We're going to get you all clean and sweet-smelling, and I'll feed you some wine and give you one of my special massages…"

"Oh, God, that sounds good," Sasha sighs.

"And that's not all." I wait until we have come to a full stop at a red light, then turn to him, reaching for his hand. "I want to try something…something we haven't tried before."

His eyes widen a little. "What's that."

I lean over and whisper it in his ear. "I want you to fuck me."

He has expressive eyebrows, my boy. He uses them now.

The light is green; I return my attention to driving.

"Jerry," he says. "I thought you didn't care if we had anal or not."

"I don't care if we never do it, but that doesn't mean I don't want to try it."

"You haven't…?"

"Not with you."

"Jerry…I don't know if I'm comfortable…"

"Oh, come on, baby. You and I both know you're the toppiest top who ever topped."

Sasha laughs, just as I am hoping he will.

This is all a part of my plan, you see. It's about him getting the healing he's been needing, and here's the thing… There's no one else who can do this for him. Not Zeke, definitely not Casey, and not even Sasha himself. It has to be me, and yeah I'm gonna fix him.

Maybe it's silly to say that. People aren’t supposed to fix other people because people are supposed to fix themselves. Thus Spake Dr. Phil, right? But yeah, I’m going to fix my baby. He's got it in his head that fucking equals someone dominating someone else. That's what that fucker Roy did to him, making a beautiful thing into something ugly, but I’m going to remind Sasha just how good it can be. All I have to do is survive it, and that’s pretty fucking easy.

And, well… we go back to my place, and I do exactly that.

Nuff said.

What? Did you think this was porn or something?

 

Sasha is standing next to me on the sidewalk in front of my apartment building, and he is grumbling. "Why so early?"

"It's eight o'clock. You get up at eight all the time."

"Yeah, but someone kept me up most of the night. And I don't see why we couldn't have a leisurely breakfast…"

"You know why."

"Tell me again?"

The fact of the matter is, Zeke wants it this way. He doesn't have a reason, at least not one that I find compelling. It's just what he wants; he called last night at midnight with a number of rationales, to which we had no choice but to succumb.

"He's a road trip Nazi, is what he is," mumbles Sasha. He slides a look my way. "How you feeling there, babe?"

I am perfectly laid back. "Fine."

"Really? Not sore at all?"

"Well, aren't you puffed up with manly pride this morning."

"Jerry! You know I'm not about that — "

"I know," I reply quickly, touching his arm. "I was kidding. And I promise I'm just fine. I'm great."

He leans in and gives me an unprecedented, public smooch on the lips.

Things could go on in this same vein for a while, maybe, but at this moment Zeke's car comes roaring around the corner and stops rather abruptly at the curb in front of us. I am surprised to see that Casey is driving – he is usually much more cautious, sometimes excessively so — but not so surprised to see that he and Zeke both look pissed off. They sit there, both of them glaring out the windshield while the motor burbles in its low baritone. Then Casey is moving. He's out of the car, coming around the back to the sidewalk, where he is confronted by Zeke.

"Get back in the fucking car."

"I will…in the back."

"In the driver's seat."

"No."

"What's going on?" Sasha asks in his most patient voice. He has a range of voices, each for a very specific situation.

"Zeke doesn't want me to drive."

"I didn't say that."

"He thinks I'm going to wreck his car."

Zeke all but shouts, "For fuck sake — ! I was a bit anxious but I'm fucking over it now! Will you drive the friggin' car?!"

Three heads are turned towards Casey now. He seems to shrink a bit, as though he feels abruptly responsible for this drama. "It won't be…" he mumbles.

"What's that?" Sasha prompts.

"I said…" He addresses Zeke. "It won't be very comfortable for you."

Inspired by this gesture towards truce, Zeke softens. "I'll be fine, Case."

Casey stares off to the side; he looks like he has something more to say but isn't quite getting it said. Zeke takes a few steps and all but cuddles him right there on the sidewalk. He says something, then Casey says something, none of it audible but it's having the right effect: Casey's chin is lifting. He nods, a couple of times. I hear an, "Okay."

So we are only a little late getting on the road and just a bit later still because we must stop for coffee and muffins. Well, Sasha and I have muffins — Zeke and Casey insist on donuts. I try not to comment too much on the things they like to eat when no one is forcing them to eat real food.

Maybe Zeke had good reasons for the early start. I mean, it's a wonder that Casey is ever on time. Don't get me wrong — he has a lot of skills now, but he's just not used to being his own navigator. Like, for example, he drives just fine but he keeps take the longer way when there's a shorter one. I'm trying really hard to keep my mouth shut and so is Zeke, so it's almost ten before we're out of Seattle.

But it's all good, because it's my day off, and we're blasting down the highway with the windows open and the radio is playing. I can smell the sea.

"Can you smell it?" I can't help but say.

"What?" Zeke demands.

"The ocean."

He sniffs. "Not really."

"I can," Casey says. "Kinda…wet and salty."

"I hope you're paying a little bit of attention to the yellow line," Zeke says.

"Yes, Zeke," Casey replies sweetly.

From the front seat, Sasha makes a face at Zeke. In reply, Zeke grabs a donut from the box sitting between the two of us and crams it in his mouth. Sasha moans, "Ugh...!"

"What?" Casey wants to know.

"He just stuffed his face with a donut."

"So?" Zeke challenges, his mouth full.

"Nothing. Nothing at all."

A minute or two later, Zeke speaks up. "Watch for the exit."

Sasha retorts, "We've got it, Zeke."

"I'm just saying."

"I hear you, Mr. Back Seat Driver."

Zeke harrumphs, folding his arms.

"He's just used to being behind the wheel," Casey explains, as if it were really necessary.

"No kidding," Sasha replies.

"You know," Zeke shoots from the back seat to the front, "I would think twice about abusing the guy whose car we're in."

"We're not abusing you!"

"Sure seems like it."

"I'm sorry, Zeke," Casey says. "I was just trying to say…you know, I get it."

For some reason, I find myself trying to get a glimpse of his face right now, maybe because he sounds so calm. I can't see it, but I do catch a bit of his hands, squarish and small, steady on the wheel. I have this moment when I'm convinced that my life is in the hands of a complete stranger.

"What have we got for music?" Sasha asks.

Zeke begins, "There's some CDs in the thing on the floor — " but I came prepared. I wrestle a CD out of my jacket pocket, pass it forward. Sasha takes it, looks, and sniggers.

"What?" Zeke says. "What is it?"

"A surprise," I say.

"I don't like surprises."

I snort, and he gives me a glare.

The first strains of Madonna's Immaculate Collection fill the car, eliciting a giggle from the driver's seat. I am pleased.

"What is this crap?" Zeke growls.

"'Holidaaay! Celebrate!'" I sing, in tandem with Sasha, waggling my brows at Zeke.

"Oh, fuck, no!"

"Fuck, yes… 'If we took a holidaaay…took some time to celebrate…'"

Zeke bellows, "Casey!"

"Yeah?"

"You're the driver, you have veto power."

"I do?"

"Yeah, you do."

"Okay."

Casey does absolutely nothing.

"Are you going to do something?"

"I don't mind this, Zeke."

"Oh…fuck me…"

"Sorry."

"You're not sorry."

Zeke pouts all the way through "Lucky Star." Glowers through "Borderline." By the time we get to "Like a Virgin," however, he seems to be reconciled, especially since he is being treated to the spectacle of all three of us singing at the top of our lungs: "'Like a virgin…touched for the very first time…! Like a ver-er-er-er-gin…with your heartbeat…next to mine! Gonna give you all my love, boy…'"

Yeah, I love Madonna.

Zeke doesn't say anything when the turn onto Maritime Road comes along, and Casey breaks off singing, negotiates it with complete self-reliance.

Still, there is a bit of a sigh when we finally pull into the lot — not that anyone was worried. There are quite a few cars in the lot despite it being before noon. So again, maybe Zeke was right.

The rest of our journey is executed on foot. When we exit the car, Casey takes a few moments to make nice with Zeke, going over to snuggle and whisper to him with unmistakable sexual import. I see a woman, part of some buttoned down, statistically correct family foursome, sneering a little at the sight. I want to stick my tongue out at her, then stick it down my boyfriend's throat. But my boyfriend just does not do public displays of affection.

I firmly believe that bigots of whatever stripe are headed for hell. I don't entirely believe in hell, but they so often do, and I think that they make that afterlife for themselves. I think God is appalled by hatred and intolerance and I think he, or it, if he's a real God, has to be better than us. What use would It be, otherwise? What sort of Supreme Being would aspire to being so hateful and judgmental?

This is getting a bit heavy…but I do this when I get into the outdoors. Nature just has that effect on me, and it's in full glory today. I see some of the strain lifting even from Zeke, who would probably rather drag himself uphill by his eyebrows than admit it. Of course, he coughs up half a lung just getting the half mile from the parking lot to the lookout, but he gets contemplative when he catches sight of the view. It is not merely the ocean, but mountainous peninsulas or islands off the distance, all lush green, spotted with brown and canopied with blue. Families and tourists are around us snapping pictures and Casey has his camera too but for some reason he seems to want just to look.

"It's so…" he says softly, searching, then settling for, "beautiful."

"Yeah," Sasha agrees. "But kind of overwhelming, too, you know? Not like around where I grew up. It's all small and medium-sized lakes…feels different."

"You could get lost," Casey says.

Something in his voice makes me look, to try to get a clue about where his head is.

He continues, "But it's not scary…wouldn't be scary…because you don't feel it."

"Don't feel what?"

"Lost. You feel…you belong."

He has gone completely strange now, and we are staring.

"She came from a place that was all ocean."

"Who?" Sasha asks.

But Zeke seems to know. He is frowning, all of his tension back and then some. He says, voice a little breathless, a little high, "How do you know?"

"She told me…told me about the ocean, right before I killed her."

It has gone terribly quiet. Casey turns, though, and sees us all looking stricken. He laughs, and no one is especially reassured. "I'm not going to jump in there or anything! It'd be way cold!"

"Fuggin' cold," Zeke agrees, his voice rough.

With a throat-clearing, Sasha asks, "So…no picture?"

Casey shakes his head. "These kind never look as good as you think they're going to. Too bright. Too beautiful…"

This last makes no sense to me, but Zeke says, “Right."

"Oh, yeah?" I wonder out loud.

"Taking a picture can be a kind of violence," Zeke explains, still watching Casey. He moves in tighter, puts an arm around Casey's abdomen, pulling him tighter still. Casey twitches, his shoulders moving, heading ducking down. I can tell that he doesn't like it but he stays in place.

"Okay," I reply, not really getting it.

I find both Casey and Zeke looking at me like they sure as fuck know what they're talking about and I'm just an idiot who doesn’t have a clue about reality. Suddenly, I see the two of them as very much alone in the world. Alone with their ways, their past, their secrets. Poor kids. I don't necessarily believe in that alien stuff, but something happened to them. Transformed them to this.

"It's not so way out," Zeke begins to argue. "Lots of cultures — "

"Yes, Zeke," Sasha says. "We believe you."

"Can I finish a thought, here?"

"I know what you mean," Casey states. He runs a hand lightly over Zeke's forearm, then steps forward, removing himself from Zeke's grip, staring out at the view, and again he is a complete stranger to me, maybe even to Sasha and Zeke. I can just see him in profile, see him squinting into the light.

I see Zeke's lips — no, his entire face goes thin and tight. All sorts of things, none of them happy, pass over Zeke's face, and he is turning away without a word, heading up the trail, going higher, and all alone.

Look! I scream silently at Casey. Look!

I don't know how or why but it is quite obvious to me that something big is happening with Zeke. Let's just say I know about these things…like, being embroiled in crisis, unable to go on a moment longer and — no, not and, not just and, I mean because, I mean too…your lover doesn't seem to know or care.

I cannot remain silent. I will not, never mind my repeated admonitions to Sasha. In one more second, words will burst from me, I will take a step, intervene. I will be involved in a way I haven't been before, and I will be lost. But still I will speak, because I can't bear not to when Casey is still facing the sea with his eyes closed and faint smile on his lips while Zeke is walking away from him.

But before I have to do myself in this way, lose all credibility with Sasha forever, Casey's eyes open and he turns, questing on some silent signal. "Zeke?"

He runs after Zeke, who has just disappeared over the rise just ahead.

The humbling of Jerry is not over yet, though, for I have just realized that I have a very strong wish to do something else that would severely damage my credibility. I'm not supposed to be the guy who wants to eavesdrop on Casey and Zeke. My line is: It's none of our business. But dammit, this time I really want to know, because it affects my life too.

I look at Sasha. Sasha looks at me.

"Shall we go see what's up…there?" I offer casually. I nearly sigh it, as though it isn't more path and more ocean, as though I'm just indulging my boyfriend's obsessions.

Sasha looks solemn for a second. Then he grins and says, "Nah."

I am startled into saying, "Really?"

"I don't think it's a good idea, do you?"

"Uh…no. No, you're right."

I smile approvingly at him, and I think Well, shit.

 

The ride home is entirely different in character. Now Sasha has become the driver and Zeke and Casey are curled up in the back seat. They came back down that hill holding hands and have not been detached since.

"Well," Sasha announced, "I think I'd like to try my hand at some Thai for supper. What do you all think?"

There is barely a sound from the back. "Sounds great, babe," I reply, and then Casey pipes up.

"Sure, Sasha."

"I'm thinking lettuce wraps, chicken satay with peanut sauce, pad thai…nothing too complicated."

"Are you sure you want to do that?" I ask. "It's such a gorgeous day."

"Nah, I feel like it…got my hands on this new shrimp sauce from Singapore. Can't wait to try it."

"All right, then." It's not how I'd want to spend my day off, but I guess that's why he's a chef and I'm a waiter.

"Zeke?"

"Huh?"

I glance into the back seat, where Zeke seems completely electrified by the person next to him. I really not sure who assuaged who when they were talking, or whatever they were doing. I still rather want to know.

"Do you like Thai?"

"I like food, Sasha. You know that."

Sasha is content. "Thai, it is."

By the time we get home, he is more than a little disgusted by the display in the back seat, and assigns Casey and Zeke to grocery detail. Still, they are giggling and smirking at each other as Sasha delivers his instructions.

"You can get all this at my usual spot," he advises, nodding at Casey, who tears himself away from Zeke long enough to acknowledge it. "Zeke…you wanna write this down?"

"I'll remember it."

"You sure? Well…okay. Peanuts…raw peanuts."

"Raw peanuts," Zeke echoes absently, glancing at Casey out of the corner of his eye.

"That means not roasted or salted."

"Got it."

"Cilantro."

"Nasty green stuff — I'm kidding! Cilantro."

"Make sure it's cilantro and not parsley."

"Check."

"Seriously, Zeke — "

"I can tell them apart, cilantro has that smell, okay?"

"Okay. Bean sprouts."

"Bean sprouts."

"Rice vermicelli."

"Rice — hey!" Zeke whirls and tries to grab Casey, who it seems has pinched him somewhere sensitive.

"Casey!" Sasha barks.

Casey is a picture of innocence. "What?"

"Do you think we can focus just for a second?"

"Okay."

"You're not helping Zeke to remember."

"I'll remember," Zeke says with an eye roll. "Raw peanuts, cilantro, bean sprouts, rice vermicelli…"

"…and lemon grass, and deveined shrimp. Fifteen count or larger."

"Say again?"

"I know what it means," Casey says. He tugs Zeke's shirt. "Let's go."

"Okay." Half-turning, he mutters, "Gonna get you…fruit loop."

Casey gives him a look that can only be counted a dare.

I sigh once they are gone and observe, "I don't imagine they'll be back any time within the next two hours."

Sasha whips a look at me. He grimaces. "Even they can't take that long." He returns his attention to the counter, where he has collected all the dirty dishes. "I think there's a coupla things in the living room. Could you grab them for me, babe?"

"You bet."

The living room is disorderly, more than I like a room to be: newspapers, a DVD case, a dirty plate and cup, and a vinyl covered book — which, as I bend closer, intent on collecting it and returning it to its proper destination along with the rest of the mess, I realize is Casey's journal.

I know he has one. I've seen him writing in it often enough, and heard him mention homework even more frequently. I'm surprised he has left it out here; I suppose it could have been from before he went to do his driving test, left and forgotten last night in the heat of whatever they did here last night.

As I stare at it, an irresistible compulsion forms. I know that Zeke and Sasha would never think of invading Casey's privacy so completely — but me? I'm not so very intimate with him and I just want a glimpse into his head. I want an insight into what he's feeling these days, because it does impinge on my life. I want him to be okay, not scared, reasonably happy, and I want him to love Zeke, because if all of those things are true then maybe I can ask Sasha to move in with me. And I can not feel guilty about insisting.

Oh, hell. I just want to know, okay? I would never share anything with Sasha or Zeke, and I would never let Casey know that I know what he's thinking just this little bit.

"What're you doing in there?" Sasha calls.

I grab the journal, tuck it into the waistband of my jeans, covering it with my shirt. Then I pick up the dirty dishes. I deliver them to Sasha from the other side of the kitchen island, and continue onwards.

"Where are you going?"

"Bathroom?"

"Oh."

I walk, in no particular hurry, down the hall. I shut the door and close the toilet lid, sitting down. With a long breath, I crack open the book, flipping it to the last used page.

As I thought, Casey was writing in this book just before his test.

I was nervous about the driving test, did a mood log and I feel better. I want to get this right, for Zeke, and especially for my dad. Well, it's a test so I should be fine. I'm good at tests.

That's it, from yesterday. Disappointed, I begin flipping backwards until my eye catches the name I'm looking for.

Steve just left, Casey has written, only a week ago. I swear I'm still twitching. I can't believe what he does to me. I love his strength. He is so powerful, I feel like he has the power to break me. But he doesn't. Next time, I'm going to tell him not to hold back.

I can't explain to Yves how a good fuck makes me feel. I've tried but it's like she doesn't get it. Maybe she doesn't want to get it, I feel like she's always trying to make me admit it's just sex.

A few days later, Steve pops up again.

I am obsessed with Steve's cock. I asked Yves if I'm terrible and she says my only obligation is to be honest with myself and with Zeke. I'm not so sure. I still feel kind of bad about it, not because of Steve but because of Zeke. I absolutely don't love Steve. I like him. I need him. I need the things I learn when I'm with him. Always learning with him!

Like when Yves asked me how it's different, being with Zeke, I could actually tell her. It's like everything means something with him. It's easy with Steve and sometimes it's easy with Zeke but never in the same way. Sometimes I want to scream at him to go away, stop touching me, stop making everything mean SO MUCH. But then when he's not around, all I want is for him to come back.

Yves says she doesn't know if that's love or not. She says she doesn't have a definition. Figures.

He makes me feel so much. Some times I think I hate him for it. I love it when we fuck too, even if I feel awful after. Sometimes I cling to him like I always did before and sometimes I just want to get away. I have to get up and shower, and I know it hurts him.

I startle to the sound of Zeke's voice, accompanied by Casey's laugh. My heart pounds and I slam the book closed as though I have actually been caught. My face is blazing hot.

There is no reason not to be casual about this. I tuck the book back into its camouflage under my shirt and open the door. Zeke is in view at the end of the hall, lifting two paper sacs. He nods at me, continuing smoothly with his task.

Casey is nowhere to be seen — sitting at the table, I guess, or in the living room. I walk not-quite-quickly towards his room and turn in —

Only to come face-to-face with Casey in the act of putting on a clean t-shirt, his shirt from earlier today lying on the floor at his feet. He has one arm in and one arm out, and he stares at me. "Hi," he says, putting his other arm through its sleeve. He looks puzzled, not alarmed, and why should he be? I am a trusted friend.

My face continues to roast as though I were turning on a spit.

"Hi," I croak. "Um — wrong turn."

He makes a face, because this is obviously a lie.

And I am done. It’s time to face the music, because I’m just an ordinary dude who did a stupid thing. This is not make-believe. Like, in books and movies and television people are always Johnny-on-the-spot, coming up with clever ideas under pressure so they can avoid being discovered lying or sneaking or whatever it is they’re trying to hide. But I am not one of those tv-book-movie people. I consider myself caught and it doesn’t occur to me to do some fancy dance to try and get away.

I close the door behind me, very gently, then pull out the journal and hand it to him. He stares down at it, then up at me. His cheeks go pink. "I left it…" he whispers.

"In the living room.”

He seems to have no response but to stare at me, as though he were the one who was just caught being naughty.

I suck in as much air as I can which is not easy because this is just so awful. “I found it...but that's no excuse…"

He blurts, "You read it."

"Just a few pages…near the end."

"Why?"

Of all the things he could say right now, this is not what I would have expected.

"I wanted…" I close my eyes, forced to examine my own motives, and open them to say, "I wanted to know what's going to happen." Because it’s true, even if it’s ridiculous. For the last half hour or so I have been a little insane, believing that everything that matters in my life somehow hinges on Casey’s secrets, Casey’s feelings.

"How could it tell you that?"

"It couldn't. I'm sorry, Casey." I cough. I repeat it, unable to look at him. I am looking at the t-shirt crumpled in a ball on the floor. "I'm sorry."

I hear what seems to be mumbling. I look up, and he is avoiding looking at me too, his lips moving.

“What’s that?” I ask.

"…must be horrified."

"Horrified? By myself, yeah."

"No…horrified by me."

“Why would I be horrified by you?”

“Be-because...”

God, I really don’t like this scene. I hate having to question him, force him to explain when I’m the one who invaded his privacy. But I put myself here. It’s my own fault. “Because what?”

“Steve... the things I wrote about...about sex with...h-him...”

"Casey…no. Just because you enjoy sex with this Steve — "

"I get lost," he blurts. "I can't feel my body…and I like it. It's always been that way."

I don't know what to say. I desperately want a way out of this room.

"I feel her," he whispers, and I'm not even sure he's intending anyone to hear it, least of all me. "I am... her…like her. I have to be…"

"Casey, don't."

"You read it."

"I don't know what you — "

"I'm always going to be this way."

And he surges forward. He is clinging to me.

Oh, my god, help me. I am so not the person for this to be happening to. How am I supposed to respond to this? I truly have no idea, it is so far from my understanding. I'm not sure who she is and even if I did I wouldn't know what this means.

"It's okay," I whisper, and pat his back.

"Don't tell anyone," he begs. "Please."

"No. Of course not."

"Don't tell."

"I swear I won't."

I am absolutely not lying.

Casey backs up. His eyes are wet and enormous. "You're great," he says, almost shyly, like he's trying to flirt. It's probably a reflex, nothing much to do with me, but it makes me even more uncomfortable.

"Not really," I protest.

"Yeah…you are."

“I read your diary, Casey. That was not a great thing to do.”

“I understand why,” he says, still playing the coquette with me, just a little. “I’m kinda...between you and Sasha.”

I put a hand on his arm, because I really want him to understand this. “You are definitely not between me and Sasha.”

Is this a pitying look he is giving me? I’m not sure. He says, “I mean that Sasha's…he's too wrapped up in what's going on with me. It's not good for him.”

Well, colour me surprised.

Casey says quietly, “I want Sasha to be happy...and you. And Zeke.” He sounds sad, regretful, as though he fears none of us can ever have anything that impossible.

Happiness is not impossible, to my way of thinking, but the way he talks about it, it’s the holy grail. As if you quest for it, you find it, and then you never let it go. As if anything in life ever worked that way.

I make my voice soft. I hope I sound kind and fatherly. “Casey. Can I ask you something?”

“Yeah.”

"Do you love Zeke?"

He draws himself up, very nearly indignant for a second and then abruptly deciding not to be, deflating. "Why do you want to know?"

God, I'm sweating here.

"I guess…because I'm hoping you do."

He is blinking at me. Then: "Zeke says I am. He keeps telling me."

"But you don't believe him?"

"Sometimes I do." Casey shrugs, and to my eyes he looks very, very young. "Sometimes…I don't know what I feel."

"Welcome to the human race."

"Whuh?" he stammers, eyes blinking rapidly. "Wh-why do you say that?"

"Because it's pretty normal not to be sure of your own feelings sometimes, you know? It doesn't mean you don't love someone — just because you can't feel it a hundred percent of the time."

"Really?"

Again, I wonder how he got to be twenty years old and yet lack so much basic knowledge. How to drive. What feelings mean…but to be fair, we're all working on that last one all the time, aren't we?

"Really." I lean in, whisper, "Sometimes I look at Sasha and I wonder who the hell this guy is sitting in my car."

Casey smiles, a little.

"You love Sasha, right?" I continue.

"Yeah…of course."

"But sometimes I'll bet you don't feel like you love him, huh?"

He stares, then utters a tiny giggle. "Yeah."

"But you never doubt that you love him. I asked you and you didn't even hesitate."

"That's true."

"So why should it be any different with Zeke?"

He knocks me right out of the park with, "Because with Zeke there's so much more at stake. I mean — it's not like I'm having sex with Sasha."

I have no answer to this. I'm just a waiter, after all.

"But you're right," he goes on, working things out. "I do kinda… overthink things." A sudden smile gets me right in the gut. It's the old one-two — first with the devastating logic, then with the charm. And then to finish me off, he sidles forward and gives me a completely spontaneous hug. It is sincere, too: just the right length, unembarrassed, warm. "Thank you, Jerry."

"My pleasure," I manage, and lean backwards, signalling an end to the hug.

I watch him as he places his journal on the bedside table, and I think about how much I wanted to ask Sasha to move in with me, and how it seemed so important, just minutes ago, to be in possession of certain information. God, I have been ridiculous, thinking Sasha moving out of here and in with me would somehow be the consummation of our relationship. I think that on some level I did feel like Casey was in the way. I have been wanting to take Sasha away from him.

There's no rush, really. Better for Sasha to stay here for now, and sleep over at my place as much as he wants. Better for all of us, because if I did insist on Sasha moving out...well, let’s just say I don’t want to find out exactly how much Casey needs him. Or how much he needs Casey, still.

I really should know better. Didn’t my ma always tell me that it takes a long time after things been torn up for nature to put them right again? Sure, she was usually talking about me not picking at the scab I had from wiping out on my bicycle, but the principle still applied. There’s no such thing as fast healing.

And besides, there’s plenty of time.

Back in Ordinary Land, Zeke has been recruited. He is stirring a pan full of what appears to be homemade peanut sauce, while Sasha washes the bean sprouts and the cilantro. The shrimp have already been peeled.

Casey worms in under Zeke's arm and snuggles close to him and the sauce.

"Easy!" Zeke yelps. He looks a little surprised, but he doesn't attempt to dislodge Casey. "It's hot."

Casey just pushes his face in against Zeke, saying nothing.

"What was going on in there?" Sasha demands. "All hush-hush in the bedroom?"

"A private conversation," is all I will admit. "Between me and Casey."

Both Sasha and Zeke look suspicious to the point of panic. Both want to demand more, but what has passed between me and Casey just now neither of us is going to tell.

"You have a task for me?" I say, keeping it light.

"Yeah. Could you beat a couple of eggs for me?"

"Sure."

"Not too much."

"What about me?" Casey asks, shifting to speak.

"You can help Zeke stir the peanut sauce," Sasha replies, deadpan.

"Sasha!"

"Seriously. It's a two-person job."

"Give me a break," Zeke grunts.

"Fine," Casey says loftily, wriggling away from Zeke. "I think I'll call my dad. Tell him the good news."

"That's a good idea."

Casey goes in search of the phone, leaving Sasha washing, me beating, and Zeke stirring. Shortly, we hear Casey on the phone, and we shamelessly eavesdrop — all three of us.

"Hi, Mom…it's Casey. Hey…what's new…? Really? Wow…Hey, mom? Guess what? I got my driver's license…Yeah… Just yesterday… Yeah… Can I talk to him? That'll be so cool if you guys can visit more…"

Sasha's head comes up. He makes a face at Zeke, who shrugs in reply.

"…okay. Love you, too, Mom. Kay…bye…Hi, Dad…Pretty good…yeah, well…I passed my driving test. I got my license…"

Is it just me, or are there three men in a kitchen making pad thai while holding their breath?

"Thanks, Dad," Casey says, and just from his tone, we know we can breathe.


End file.
